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4    OUR  •-•' 
14  SENTIMENTAL 
GARDEN 


OUR  SEIff  MENTAL 

RDEN 


NES  AND 
SGERTON 
/       CASTLE 


-,-~??V 


PHILADELPHIA:  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  CO 

LONDON:   WILLIAM  HEINEMANN 

MCMXIV 


Printed  in  England 


455 
C     i 


To  our  ^ind  Neighbours,  of  legate, 
SIR  HUGH  <£)  LADY  WyNDHAM 

who  viewed  the  "Villino"  garden, 
even  from  the  beginning,  with  indul- 
gent eyes;  and,  with  friendliest  tact, 
persisted  in  descrying  possibilities  of 
grace   in    the    wildest    tangle,    this 
chronicle  is  affectionately  inscribed 
in  pleasant  remembrance 
of  too   rare   visits. 

I 

September 
1914 


Villino  Loki 

OVER  the  hills  and  far  away, 

A  place  of  flowers  crowns  a  rise  ,• 

And  there  our  year,  from  May  to  May, 

Comes  with  a  breath  of  Paradise/ 

There  the  small  helpless  soul  that  lies 

So  sweetly,  innocently  gay, 

In  little  furry  things  at  play, 

With  perfect  trust  can  meet  our  eyes  / 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away, 

Over  the  hills. 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away, 
In  every  rose  a  dream  we  prize, 
While  thousand  tender  memories 
Flutter  about  the  lilac-spray  / 
To-day,  to-morrow,  yesterday- 
Each  unto  each  make  glad  replies  / 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away, 
Over  the  hills. 

ELINOR  SWEETMAN 


^^^  "TKVRR  was    trifling   chronicle  begun  so  light- 

^^    heartedly  as  this  chatty,  idly  reminiscent  book  of 

-*-         '    ours — and  now  it  is  under  the  great  shadow  of 

war,  of  death  and  suffering,  that  we  see  it  pass  into  its 

final  shape  ! 

The  " little  paradise  on  the  hill"  with  all  its  innocent 
pleasures,  its  everyday  joys  and  cares  ;  with  the  antics  of 
the  "  little  furry  things  at  play"  the  sayings  and  doings 
of  the  "famiglia  "  ;  the  roses,  the  bulbs  and  seedlings ; 
our  alluring  garden  plans,  our  small  despairs  and  unex- 
pected blisses — our  earthly  paradise,  as  we  have  said, 
seems  like  an  unreal  place.  We  wander  through  it  with 
spirit  ill  at  ease  ;  oppressed,  as  by  a  curse,  through  no 
fault  of  ours.  The  sight  of  an  Autumn  Catalogue 
(hitherto  so  tempting,  so  full  of  promised  joys)  evokes  only 
a  sigh.  The  offer,  from  the  familiar  Dutchman,  of  bulbs 
which  "it  will  help  Belgium  if  we  buy"  turns  the 
heart  sick.  We  know  we  must  not  buy  bulbs,  this  year, 
because  we  shall  have  to  buy  bread — bread  for  those  who 
will  surely  lack  it — and  yet,  if  we  do  not  buy,  others  in 
their  turn  must  needs  go  wanting.  And  here  is  but 
the  merest  drop  in  the  monstrous  tide  of  evils  wantonly 
let  loose  upon  humanity  by  the  self-styled  Attila  /  There 
are  times  when,  looking  out  upon  our  place  of  peace, 
we  feel  as  though,  surely,  we  must  all  be  lost  in  some 
fantastic  nightmare.  It  is  a  September  full  of  golden 


sunshine;  as  this  night  falls,  a  benign,  placid  moon  rises 
over  the  silent  moors  into  a  sky  the  colour  of  spun-glass. 
The  breeze  choirs  softly  through  the  boughs  of  scented 
Larch  and  Birch.  All  is  beauty,  harmony  —  while 
in  those  fields  yonder,  south  of  the  sea,  the  Huns  .  .  . 
Pray  God,  by  the  time  the  Spring  begins  to  stir  shyly 
once  more  in  our  copses  ;  what  time  the  Crocus  pushes 
forth  its  little  tender  Jiame,  and  the  Snowdrop  (with  us 
fugitive  and  reluctant)  bends  its  timorous  head  under  our 
hill-top  winds,  we  may  indeed  look  back  upon  these  days 
as  upon  some  dreadful  dream  ! 

Meanwhile — even  as  the  Villino  Itself  is  now  to  become 
a  home  of  convalescence  for  some  of  our  wounded,  still 
unknown,  but  to  be  welcomed  soon ;  even  as  the  Cottage 
is  to  be  a  refuge  for  women  and  babes  jled  from  burning 
Belgian  hamlets — the  following  pages,  breathing  content 
and  all  the  harmless  ways  of  life,  may  perchance  help 
to  beguile  thoughts  surfeited  with  tales  and  pictures  of 
mortal  strife.  We  hope  that,  as  a  sprig  of  Lavender, 
or  a  Cowslip,  by  his  pillow  might  for  a  moment 
relieve  the  blood-tinted  vision  of  a  stricken  soldier,  so, 
perhaps,  some  unquiet  heart  labouring  under  the  strain 
of  long-drawn  suspense,  will  find  a  passing  relaxation, 
a  forgotten  smile,  in  the  company  of  Loki  and  his 
companions. 

Sept.   1914 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 
IN  COLOUR 


THE  HEMICyCLE 

THE  DUTCH  GARDEN 

THE  BEECH 

SUMMER 

THE  MOOR 

AUTUMN 

THE  HOLLY  TREE 

WINTER 


Frontispiece 

To  face  page  16 

„   „  142 

„   „  150 

*   „  208 

„   „  234 

„   „  272 
292 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL 
GARDEN 


T  is  easier  to  begin  with  our  beasts.— 
First,  they  are  much  the  most  im- 
portant, and  secondly,  there  are 
only  six  of  them.  Our  bulbs  lie 
in  their  thousands  with  just  a 
green  nose  showing  here  and  there 
now  in  January  and  are  nameless 
things:  only  collectively  dear,  if 
extraordinarily  so. 

It  will  instantly  be  perceived  what  kind  of  gardeners  we  are, 
and  what  kind  of  garden  we  keep.  We  have  scarcely  a 
single  plant  of  "  individuality/'  We  do  not  spend  ten 
guineas  on  a  jonquil  bulb,  nor  fifteen  on  a  peony.  To  our 
mind  no  flower  can  be  common :  therefore  we  lavish  our 
resources  on  quantity.  I  was  going  to  say :  not  quality, 
but  that  is  where,  in  our  opinion,  the  modern  kind  of  garden- 
maker  goes  wrong.  What  is  in  a  name  ?  Where  flowers 
are  concerned,  nothing !  But  how  much,  what  treasures  of 
joy  and  colour,  of  shade  and  exquisite  texture,  of  general 
blessedness  in  fact,  lurk  in  the  beloved  crowd  of  the  name- 
less things,  that  come  to  us  designated  only  thus :  "  Best 
mixed  Darwin  Tulips''/  "Blue  bedding  Hyacinths"/ 
"  Single  Jonquils,  best  mixed/'  and  so  on  !  We  once  de- 
scended so  far  as  to  order  "  a  hundred  mixed  Delphiniums 
at  10s.,"  and  when,  last  June,  we  looked  down  on  a  certain 

a  1 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

bed  in  the  Reserve  Garden  from  the  seat  under  The  Beech 
Tree  <which  commands  that  enthralling  spot)  and  saw  the 
blue  battalion 
glowing  with 
enamel  colours 
draw  up 
against  the 
moor  beyond, 
we  felt 
not  at 

all  ashamed  of 
ourselves  ~  yea, 
we  felt  conceit- 
edly pleased. 


But   our  beasts 
are  individual  in- 
deed /  and,  as  it  was 
said,  there   are  only  six   of 
them. 

The  first  in  order  of  import- 
ance is  the  Pekinese,  who, 
purchased  at  a  moment  when 
we  were  much  under  the  en- 

chantment  of  the  ''Ring/7  we  ineptly  ^yet,  from  the 
ethnological  standpoint,  not  altogether  inappropriately-- 
called Loki :  his  coat  is  fiery  red,  and  he  is  an  adept  at 
deceit.  When  we  want  to  impress  strangers  we  hastily 
explain  that  he  is  Mo-Loki,  son  of  the  great  Mo-Choki,  the 
celebrated  champion.  Loki  <who  frequently  assures  us 


CONCERNING  THE  PEKINESE 

that  he  was  a  Lion,  in  Pekin)  was  born  on  the  roof  of 
the  Imperial  Palace  in  High  Street,  Kensington.  His 
appearance  and  behaviour  are  such  as  bear  testimony  to 
his  princely  lineage.  We  let  him  run  a  great  deal  when 
he  was  a  puppy,  with  the  result  that  his  legs  are  a  little 
longer  than  is  usual  with  members  of  the  Imperial  Dynasty, 
but  "  Grandpa  "—Stop !  It  is  as  well  to  explain  from  the 
outset  that,  since  the  advent  of  Loki  in  the  family,  Grandpa 
is  the  name  that  has  devolved,  automatically,  upon  the 
Master  of  the  House :  the  infant  Loki's  mistress  having 
assumed,  from  the  very  necessity  of  things,  the  post  and 
responsibility  of  mother  <in  Pekinese  ma-ma>,  it  must  follow 
as  the  night  the  day  that  her  father  "illico"  became 
Grandpa.— To  resume :  though  his  legs  are  a  trifle  longer 
than  is  usual,  the  Master  of  the  House  says  he  is  much 
more  beautiful  by  reason  of  this  distinction.  And  we  all 
agree  with  him. 

Loki  will  not  believe  that  the  Manchu  masters  have  fallen 
in  China  <of  course  it  is  not  from  us  that  he  has  heard 
these  distressing  rumours),  so  he  still  demands  as  his  right 
the  best  silk  eiderdowns  to  lie  upon,  satin  for  his  cushions, 
grilled  kidney  for  his  breakfast,  freshly  poured  water  in  his 
bowl  every  time  he  wants  to  drink  /  and  expects  immediate 
attention  at  lunch  and  dinner-time,  play-time, "  bye-bye"-time, 
and  all  the  other  times  when  he  thinks  he  would  like  his 
chest  rubbed.  He  sits  up  and  waves  his  paws  with  im- 
perious gesture ,-  or  else  rolls  over  on  his  back  and  puts 
them  together  in  an  attitude  of  prayer.  He  had  not  at 
first  much  oriental  calm  about  him.  Indeed,  when  he  first 
came  to  us  his  one  desire  was  to  play  with  every  living 
thing  he  saw,  from  a  cow  to  a  chicken/  but  the  cow 

3 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
misunderstood  and  ran  at  him,  and  the  chicken  misunder 
stood  and  ran  away.    The  poor  puppy  was  perplexed  and 

,          wounded.  He  always 
believed    every    new 
Teddy    bear    toy  to 
be  alive  at  first,  and 
would  receive  it  in  a 
rapture  of  tail-wagging 
and  nuzzling  kisses, 
until  what  time,  it 
dawning  upon  him 
that  Teddy  was  a 
senseless  fraud,  he 
set  himself  to  shake 
and  worry  it  like 
a  little  fury.   Now 
he    is    older    and 
wiser.  He  pretends 
not  to  see  cows,  and 
condemns  chickens/  he 
will  growl  at  a  strange  dog, 
bite  and  shake  a  new  toy 
very  first  day.    Thus,  alas, 
do  years   make    a    cynic    of   the 
young  idealist ! 

e  only  plays  with  his  own  animals. 
tiese  are:  Susan,  the  Butler's  dog,  and 
Arabella,  the  Lavroch  setter,  a  long, 
lovely,  lithe,  foolish  creature,  whose  surname  is  Stewart, 
having  come  to  Villino  Loki  out  of  far  Scotland  from  a 
distinguished  member  of  that  Royal  clan. 
4 


LOKFS  OWN  ANIMALS 

Arabella,  who  is  ten  times  the  size  of  Loki,  turns  him 
over  and  over,  tramples  on  him, 
nibbles  and  licks  him  till  he  is  un- 
speakable.    He  will  leap  at  her 
nose,  hang  on  to  one 
of  her  long   flapping 
ears,    race     up    and 
down  the  slopes  and 
round  and  round  the 
green  terraces,  till  they 
both  collapse,  and  their 
tongues  hang  out  of 
their  laughing  mouths, 
seeming  to  flicker  with 
their   panting   breath, 
and  become  as  long 
as     the    tongues     of 
dragons  on  old  manu- 
scripts. 

A  matter  to  be  noticed  is 
that  they  never  play  in  their 
walks  with  us  across  the 
moors  —  apparently  that  is 
against  dog  etiquette  ~  but 
they  will  lie  in  wait  for  each  ,1, 
other  at  the  garden  gate  on  ' 


the  way  home,  and  the  fun 

and  the  pouncing  and  growling  jocosities  begin  the  instant 

they  are  inside. 

Susan  doesn't  play  with  the  other  animals,  though  she 

exercises  an  irresistible  fascination  upon  every  dog  that 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
comes  within  a  mile  of  her.  She  has  a  kind  of  Jane  Eyre 
charm,  we  suppose,  for  it  is  not  at  first  visible  to  the 
naked  eye.  She  always  does  remind  us  of  a  small  elderly 
German  governess,  for  she  is  squat,  undemonstrative, 
and  eminently-oh,  eminently  I—respectable.  She  is  a  fox- 
terrier.  She  has,  however,  one  terrible  weakness.  Her 
only  joy  is  to  have  stones  thrown  for  her.  She  is  not, 
therefore,  an  agreeable  person  to  take  out  for  a  walk, 
for  she  will  get  right  under  your  feet,  dig  up  a  stone, 
point  at  it,  and  bark,  "Throw,  throw!7'  with  a  shrill 
persistence  that  goes  through  your  head.  And  if  you 
are  weak-minded  enough  to  yield,  then  indeed  you  are 
undone,  YOU  will  be  kept  throwing  till  you  wish  her  in 
the  Dog  Star.  She  will  scratch  up  stones  till  her  paws 
are  raw.  This  we  think  a  great  defect,  but  Loki  sees  no 
flaw  in  her. 


When  Susan's  Butler  first  came  to  us,  we  had  suffered 
acutely  from  butlers  young  and  butlers  old,  butlers  bashful 
and  butlers  bold—all  of  whom  drank  steadily.  One  nearly 
murdered  his  Buttons.  Another,  engaged  by  correspond- 
ence, vouched  for  by  the  agency,  announcing  his  years  as 
forty -five,  arrived  huge,  decrepit,  asthmatic  /  almost,  if  not 
quite,  qualified  for  an  old-age  pension.  The  eight  o'clock 
dinner  he  found  it  impossible  to  serve  before  nine  /  and  then 
that  ceremony  became  a  perfect  torture  of  dazed  crawling, 
enlivened  by  stertorous  breathing,  for  which  asthma  and 
chronic  alcoholism  disputed  responsibility.  When  the 
Master  of  the  House,  who  is  very  tender-hearted,  in- 
timated that  he  thought  that,  for  the  good  of  the  new 
6 


CELLARERS  YOUNG,  CELLARERS  OLD 

comer's  health,  they  had  better  part  with  the  utmost 
celerity,  the  veteran  assented  resignedly  with  the  husky 
gasp  peculiar  to  him. 

"You  know/7  said  the  Master  of  the 
House,  mildly,  "  you  are  not  quite  what 
you  represented  yourself  to  be.  YOU 
said  you  were  forty-five ! " 
"I   think/'    wheezed    the    Ancient 
Cellarer/  "  I  think  I  said  forty-seven, 
sir/' 

"Oh,  forty-seven!"     The   Master 
of  the   House  was  a  little 
satiric.    "Even  if  you  had 
said  forty-seven,  you  are  a 
great,  great  deal  more  than  that ! 
"  Sir/'  said  the  delinquent,  with  a  beery 
twinkle,  "no  butler  can  ever  be  more 
than  forty-seven." 

This,  we  understand,  is  a  maxim  of  life 
in  the  profession. 

A  third—he  was  young  and  beautiful—had 
a  fondness  for  a  brew  called  gin-and-ginger, 
which  had  so  cheering  and  immediate  effect 
upon  him  that,  having  left  the  drawing- 
room  after  tea  the  very  pink  and  perfection 
of  propriety,  he  would  announce  dinner 
in  an  advanced  condition  of  jocular  elevation,  and  when 
the  plates  slid  out  of  his  hands  he  would  survey  them 
with  a  waggish  smile,  as  one  who  would  say:  "Bless 
their  little  hearts,  see  how  playful  they  are ! " 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
We  became  anxious  to  secure  a  servant  who  would 
have  more  than  a  few  streaks  of  sobriety,  and  when 
Susan's  owner  came,  we  felt  we  had  secured  that  pearl. 
He  came  in  a  great  hurry  (without  Susan)  because  of 
the  equally  hurried  departure  of  the  beautiful  hilarious  one. 
After  a  week  or  so,  we  asked  him  if  he  would  consider  us 
as  a  permanency.  He  said  he  would  have  to  consider  us 
a  little  longer.  After  another  ten  days  he  informed  us  of 
Susan's  existence,  and  announced  his  intention  of  going 
to  fetch  her.  We  breathed  again. 

Juvenal— that  is  his  name— is  very  fond  of  animals.  A  little 
too  fond,  we  thought,  when  he  invited  a  military  friend's 
dog  to  stay,  during  the  owner's  absence  at  manoeuvres. 
This  animal,  by  name  O'Reilly,  arrived  in  dilapidated, 
devil-may-care,  barrack-yard  condition,  which  was  a  great 

shock  to  our  Manchu 
prince.  He  also  had  pink 
bald  elbows  and  knees. 
His  hind  legs  were  longer 
than  his  front  ones,  which 
gave  him  an  ourang- 
outang  gait.  As  became 
his  Milesian  name,  he 
fought  every  one  he  met 
on  his  walks.  Why  he 
did  not  fight  Loki,  we 
do  not  know,  for  Loki 
loathed  him  and,  we  be- 
lieve, suffered  acutely  in 
his  poor  little  Chinese 
soul  all  during  his  stay. 


IN  THE  MATTER  OF  O'REILLY 

Yet  unwelcome  as  he  was,  scald,  ungainly,  tiresome,  there 

was   something  pathetic  about  the  creature.     He  had   a 

way  of  looking  at  one,  deprecating  and  pleading 

at  once/  and  he  would  display  such  rapture  at 

the  smallest   token  of  toleration,  that,  despite 

our  satisfaction  at  his  departure,  we  had  an 

ache  in  our  hearts  too.  We  have  a  shrewd 

suspicion    that    the    corporal-major    who 

owned  him  was  a  rough  customer,  and  that 

poor  O'Reilly's  life  was  not  that  happy  one 

which  every  "owned"  dog's  ought  to  be. 

A  dog  should  not  be  treated  as  a  dog. 


vl 

As  for  cats,  once  they  have  passed  the  giddy  days  of  jj 
youth,  in  which  they  are  imps,  sprites,  goblins,  pucks, 
furry,  fairy,  freakish  things—anything  but  mere  animals— 
one  cannot  help  feeling  a  certain  awe  with  regard  to  them. 
Despite  the  many  cycles  of  years  that  have  elapsed  since 
their  ancestors  took  habitation  with  us,  they  have  remained 
true  Easterns.  From  father  to  son,  from  mother  to 
daughter  they  have  handed  down  secret  stores  of  occult 
knowledge  which  they  keep  jealously  to  themselves,  a  sacred 
inheritance  of  race.  Those  eyes  that  fix  you  with  pupil 
contracted  to  a  slit,  and  look  through  and  beyond  you  into 
mysteries  undreamt  of  by  you :  that  lofty  detachment,  that 
ineradicable  independence,  that  relentless  indifference  :  have 
we  not  all  felt  by  these  signs  and  tokens  how  completely 
the  cat  puts  us  outside  the  sphere  of  his  real  thoughts  and 
feelings  ?  Priests  or  priestesses  they  seem  to  fee,  of  some 
alien  creed,  soul  satisfying,  contemplative,  with  sudden 

9 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
savage  rites.  Have  you  ever  watched  a  cat  with  regard 
turned  inwards,  meditating?  Its  body  sways,  but  the 
spirit  bubbles  softly  as  if  it  were  seething  in  content  over  a 
mystic  fire.  It  does  not  want  you  to  join  it  in  its  rapture, 
like  your  dog.  It  has  no  desire  to  admit  you  into  its 


/ 


•M 

*  comradeship.  It  is  as  self-contained  and  self- 
absorbed  as  the  highest  grade  Mahatma. 
Kitty-Wee,  the  Lovely,  is  chief  of  our  three  cats. 
She  is  a  Persian  lady  with  a  wonderful  robe  of 
silver  grey,  faintly  blue,  and  orange  eyes  inherited  from 
that  most  beautiful,  most  evil  monster,  Tittums  the  Bold- 
and-Bad,  her  father,  who  spent  his  adorable  tkittenhood 
and  his  stormy  youth  under  our  London  roof,  until  his 
habit  of  lying  in  wait  for  the  servants  at  odd  corners  and 
jumping  at  their  elbows,  made  it  imperative  for  us  to  part 
with  him.  He  was  then  adopted  by  a  gentle  parson's 
daughter,  in  the  freedom  of  whose  country  dwelling  it 
was  hoped  that  he  might  sow  his  wild  oats  and  settle 
down  into  respectability.  But  alas!  the  day  dawned, 
when  lying  on  the  rector's  cassock  in  the  dining-room, 
he  was  so  incensed  at  the  reverend  gentleman's  polite 
request  to  move,  that  he  chased  him  round  and  round 
the  room,  ran  him  down  in  the  hall  and  bit  him.  The 
churchman  was  not  an  unreasonable  being  and  had  made 
10 


KITTy-WEE  THE  LOVELy 

many  allowances  for  the  frailty  of  degenerate  creation/ 
but  he  drew  the  line  at  the  violation  of  his  reverend  elbows. 
Tittums  was  once  again,  with  many  tears  and  heart- 
rendings,  passed  on.  This  time  to  a  lady  who  keeps  a 
cattery.  We  hear  that  he  has  become  a  model  of  every 
virtue,  and  that  she  only  wears  a  fencing  mask  and  boxing 
gloves  when  she  combs  him,  because  on  the  day  when  she 
left  them  off,  Tittums,  in  a  fit  of  absence  of  mind,  bit  her 
through  the  thumb.  Anyone  who  takes  a  cat  paper  can 
hear  more  of  this  most  distinguished  beast,  under  the  name 
of  "  Saracinesca." 

Kitty- Wee  is  supposed  to  have  inherited  her  father's  super- 
lative looks— only  he  was  "  smoke  ""-and  her  mother's 
angelic  disposition.  If  occasionally  a  spark  of  the  paternal 
temper  flashes  out,  the  gardener's  wife  <with  whom  she 
prefers  to  dwell)  says  "  Kitty  is  a  bit  nervous  to-day." 
It  was  after  Kitty-Wee's  first  mesalliance  that  she  took  up 
her  abode  with  the  worthy  pair  in  the  "little  cot,"  as 
Mrs.  Adam  calls  it,  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  Persian 
princesses,  from  the  time  of  "A  Thousand  and  One 
Nights  "  onwards,  are  proverbially  capricious.  But  what 
perverse  freak  of  youthful  fancy  induced  our  delicate  silver- 
pawed  highborn  damsel  to  fix  her  young  affections  upon 
Mr.  Hopkinson  was  and  is,  a  painful  mystery. 
Mr.  Hopkinson,  a  very  hooligan  among  cats,  so  degenerate 
indeed  as  to  have  lost  all  his  eastern  characteristics,  and  to 
have  assumed  a  positively  "Arry-like,  bank-'oliday,  dis- 
reputable, Hampstead-Heath  kind  of  vulgarity,"  was  a 
lean,  mangy  creature  with  a  denuded  tail.  He  had  a  black 
spot  over  one  eye/  the  other  eye  was  conspicuous  by 
its  absence.  We  could  hear  his  raucous  voice  uplifted 

11 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
in  serenade,  suggestive  of  accordeons,  night  after  night,  and 
his  gattural  whisper  of  "  Me  'Oighness     behind  the  bushes 

when  we  went  on  our 
walks.  Every  effort  was 
made     to     discourage 
the  preposterous  suitor. 
But,  alas !  Kitty  smiled. 
~~  The  infatuated  Princess 
escaped  the  vigilance  of 
her    distracted    family. 
._,_       Perhaps  it  is    best  to 
draw  a  veil  over  the 
consequences  of  this  rash  alliance.  Kitty 
indeed  did  her  best  to  obliterate  them, 
refusing  to  do  anything  but  sit  heavily 
on  three  black  and  white  kittens  with 
ropy  tails.    She  only  purred  again  the 
day  the  last  one  died  /  "  Oh !  she  was 
pleased,  Mam,"  said  the  gardener's  wife  / 
"  quite  took  up  again,  she  did." 
Kitty- Wee's  next  matrimonial  venture, 
though  likewise,  we  grieve  to  say,  mor- 
ganatic, was  very  much  more  successful. 
In  fact  it  is  to  it  that  we  owe— Bunny ! 
The  name,  the  lineage,  the  very  person- 
ality of  Bunny's  father  is  wrapt  in  mystery  / 
but  judging  by  the   splendour  of  Bunny's 
black  fur,  it  is  to  be  conjectured  that  Kitty- 
Wee's  choice  was  of  a  dark  complexion, 
and  if  not  royal,  at  any  rate  of  noble  blood. 
Two  brave  brothers  Bunny  had,  but  he  is  the  sole  survivor  / 
12 


KITTY-WEE'S  MESALLIANCES 

all  the  more  cherished.  And  really,  even  if  he  lacks  his 
mother's  supreme  distinction,  we  cannot  but  feel  proud  of 
him.  Waggish,  gentle,  humorous  creature  that  he  is,  he 
will  hang  round  the  neck  of 
Adam,  the  gardener,  like  a  boa, 
for  a  whole  morning  together  / 
or  stalk  the  dogs  from  tree  to 
tree,  pounce  on  them  at  unex- 
pected moments  to  deliver  a 
swinging  friendly  slap  on 
Susan's  fat  back,  or  to  waltz 
with  Arabella,  or  to  inveigle 
Loki,  with  odd  freakish  sidelong 
gambols,  into  a  mysterious 
game  of  his  own,  which,  as 
our  little  Chinaman  has  some- 
thing of  the  cat  in  him,  he 
seems  to  understand. 
We  are  very  glad  that  Adam 
had  Bunny  to  console  him,  for 
Kitty- Wee's  offspring  has  an 
odd  resemblance  in  size  and  appearance  to  Ceesar,  the 
late  Garden  Cat,  much  beloved,  who  alas !  went  the 
way  of  all  fur  <with  a  melancholy  little  assistance  from 
the  chemist)  shortly  before  Bunny's  appearance  in  this 
plane. 

"  Oh,  Miss,"  said  Mrs.  Adam,  on  the  Sunday  that 
followed  that  Socratic  tragedy,  "  last  night  was  the  most 
dreadful  night  we  ever  spent!  It  was  the  first  time  for 
thirteen  years  we  hadn't  had  a  cat  in  the  house!  Oh! 
Miss,  I  thought  Daddy  would  have  broken  his  heart.  He 

13 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

just  sat  with  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  sighed.    Really 

Miss  Marie,  I  don't  know  when  we've  felt  so  bad/' 

It  will  be  seen  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Adam  have  the  right 

feeling  towards  "  little  sister  cat  and  little  brother  dog/'  as 

St.  Francis  of  Assisi  would  have  called  them.    This  suits 


us  very  well,  and  oddly  enough,  Villino  Loki  is  a  kind  of 
paradise  for  things  of  fur  and  feather.  Cat  and  dog  live  in 
a  strange  harmony.  To  see  Loki  kiss  Bunny,  or  Bunny  clasp 
Arabella  round  the  neck,  is  as  pleasing  a  sight  as  you  could 
imagine.  And  if  Kitty- Wee  occasionally  boxes  Loki  with 
a  kind  of  delicate  compactness,  it  is  with  her  claws  in.  As 
for  Juvenal,  the  butler,  whose  pantry  is  full  of  singing  birds, 
no  sense  of  etiquette  will  restrain  him  from  public  blandish- 
ments when  Loki  is  on  the  scene.  George,  the  footman, 
can  be  heard  addressing  him—Loki— in  back  passages,  as 
"  My  loved  one ! "  And  Tom,  the  old  long-haired  English 
cat,  rules  the  kitchen. 

Tom  has  reached  the  patriarchal  age  of  eighteen  years,  and 
is  cherished  by  the  master  of  the  Villino.  He  has  had  many 
vicissitudes.  He  was  stung  by  an  adder  during  our  very 
first  summer,  years  ago,  on  these  moors,  and  lay  for  a  day 
in  a  coma  with  one  paw  swollen  the  size  of  a  child's  arm, 
to  be  saved  by  doses  of  brandy  and  milk.  A  few  years 
later  he  was  caught  in  a  trap.  How  he  got  free  no  one 
14 


THE  VICISSITUDES  OF  TOM 
knows,  but  we  found  him  crawling,  piteously  complaining, 
with  a  shattered  leg.  With  the  help  of  the  cook,  who 
followed  the  tradition  of  the  establishment  and  | 
was  Tom's  slave,  the  leg  was  set  with  strips 
of  firewood,  the  bone 
being  very  success- 
fully  mended.  It  so 
happened  that  the 
Master  of  the  House 
had,  about  the  same 

time,  snapped  his  tendo-plantaris  at  tennis/ 
and  it  was  a  sight  to  see  them  both  when 
they  stumped  down  the  wooden  passages— the  master  dot. 
and-go-one  on  his  crutches,  Thomas  following  in  his  splints, 
dot-and-go-three. 

The  amateur  surgery,  however,  was  not  completely  suc- 
cessful. Though  Thomas'  bone  knit,  the  poor  mangled 
flesh  remained  unhealed,  and  at  last  the  cook  conveyed 
her  darling  in  a  basket  to  the  most  celebrated  London 
animal  doctor.  Thereafter  ensued  a  time  of  horrible 
suspense.  Telegrams  went  briskly  backwards  and  for- 
wards. Dr.  Jewell  "  doubted  if  he  could  save  the  limb/' 
Tom's  adoring  family  could  not  contemplate  the  tragedy 
therein  implied.  "  Better  euthanasia ! "  we  wired.  "  Will 
do  my  best  for  little  cat,"  the  sympathetic  ^S/sculapius  of 
God's  humble  creatures  replied.  Hope  and  devotion 
triumphed.  Tommy  returned  to  us  with  three  legs  in 
large  fur  trousers,  the  fourth  as  close  as  a  mouse.  The 
fur  thereon  has  never  grown  to  full  length  again.  We  fear 
it  will  never  grow  now. 

Dear  old  Tom  is  toothless,  and  he  is  getting  a  little  bald 

15 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

on  the  top  of  his  head/  but  he  is  a  beautiful  creature  still, 
and  a  dandy.  His  four  spats  are  always  of  an  almost 
startling  snowiness  ,•  his  shirt-front  ditto,  He  is  not  very 
fond  of  any  of  the  other  animals,  and  was  so  revolted  by 
Kitty- Wee's  mesalliance  that  she  could  not  show  her  face 
in  the  kitchen  without  his  instantly  using  as  severe  language 
as  ever  John  Knox  to  Queen  Mary.  "  Hussy ! "  was  the 
mildest  of  his  terms. 


16 


THE  DUTCH  GARDEN 


HOTIJC1 


' 

.'  •• 


II 

WHERE  we  live,  high  on  the  southern  moorlands  of  Surrey, 
the  desolation  of  winter  never  seems  to  reach  us  /  unless, 
indeed,  upon  certain  days  of  streaming  rains,  or  weeping 
mists  that  rush  rapid  and  ghost-like  up  the  valley,  and 
blot  out  the  world  from  view.  But  those  days  would 
be  dreary  anywhere  and  in  any  season. 
Our  funny  little  house,  more  like  an  Italian  "  Villino,"  per- 
haps, than  anything  English,  stands  high,  midway  between 
the  rolling  shoulders  of  moor  and  the  green-wooded  dip 
of  the  valley.  And  the  moor  has  always  colour  in  it. 
There  are  some  sunset  days  when  it  seems  not  so  much  to 
reflect  as  to  give  out  rose  and  purple  and  carmine.  And 
now  in  January  it  is  a  wonderful  copper-brown,  with  the 
tawny  of  dying  Bracken  and  the  yellow  of  young  Gorse. 
And  opposite  to  us  a  belt  of  birchwood  is  purple  against 
solemn  green  of  pine.  And  the  purple  and  solemn  green 
run  right  down  together  to  the  bright  verdure  of  fields  and 
dells  /  then  up  again  to  moorland,  where  the  fir  trees  march 
up  once  more  against  the  sky. 

There  are  Larches  in  these  woods,  and  Oaks,  so  that  the 
spring  tints  are  almost  as  wonderful  as  the  autumn.  When 
the  Furze  and  Broom  are  all  guinea-gold  on  the  moor,  the 

b  17 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
young  Bracken  begins  to  creep  in  green  patches  that  are 
pure  joy.  Later  on  the  Bell-heather  breaks  into  a  deep 
rose  which,  with  the  sun  on  it,  holds  such  a  glory  of  colour 
that  you  could  scarce  find  its  match  in  an  old  Cathedral 
window.  And  when  this  splendour  begins  to  turn  to 
russet,  then  comes  the  tender  silvery  amethyst  of  the  Ling, 
and  spreads  a  mantle  all  over  those  great  shoulders  of 
wild  land  that  is  of  the  exact  hue  most  beautiful  to  con- 
trast with  the  full  summer  woods  and  the  blue  of  an  August 
sky/  a  combination  so  matchless  for  colour-loving  eyes 
that  it  seems  as  if  one's  soul  were  not  big  enongh  to  hold 
the  complete  impression.  And  when  our  Delphiniums  rear 
themselves  against  this  background,  we  feel,  looking  on  it 
all,  as  if  we  could  sing  for  the  mere  rapture  of  it  /  or— 
having  no  voice— roll  in  the  grass  like  Loki  or  like  Bunny. 


For  a  long  time  we— Loki's  Grandfather  and  Grandmother 
—had  said  to  each  other  that  we  must  have  a  week-end 
cottage.  We  were  so  tired  of  hiring  other  people's  houses, 
summer  after  summer,  and  of  the  labour  <not  unattended 
by  some  pleasurable  excitement  on  Loki's  Grandmother's 
part)  of  pulling  their  furniture  about,  and  hiding  away  all 
the  family  portraits  and  the  choicest  works  of  art,  to  make 
the  alien  spaces  tolerable  to  one's  own  individuality.  So 
tired,  too,  of  the  boredom  and  worry  of  having  to  restore 
everything  to  its  pristine  ugliness  and  hang  up  the  enlarged 
photographs  and  the  dreadful  oil  paintings  on  the  walls 
once  more— a  tedious  task,  albeit  enlivened  on  one  occasion 
by  the  thrilling  discovery  that,  having  consigned  these 
treasures  to  an  oak  chest  in  the  hall,  most  of  them  had 
18 


A  LITTLE  PLACE  OP  ONE'S  OWN 
grown  fur/  and  that  on  another  the  oil  painting  of  your 
detested  landlady,  in  middle  Victorian  chignon  and  the  hump 
of  the  period,  has  received  a  scratch  on  the  nose  which  no 
copious  application  of  linseed  oil  will  disguise.  We 
always  detest  our  landlady  .  .  .  though  not  as  much  as 
we  loathe  the  tenants  who  may  happen  to  hire  a  house 
of  ours. 

At  the  end  of  each  summer,  therefore,  we  would  make 
elaborate  calculations  to  prove  what  a  great  economy  it 
would  be  to 
have  a  little^ 
place  of  our 
own.  Finally 
these  plans  and  de-  j 
sires  crystallized  into 
action.  When  Loki's 
Grandfather  returned 
from  a  round  of  in- 
spection to  the  hotel 
where  we  were  staying  in  the  dis- 
trict we  fancied,  and  told  Loki's  (- 
Grandmother  that  he  had  visited  a  funny  little  house 
with  a  terrace  upon  which  he  "saw  her'7— in  his  own 
phraseology— she  was  extremely  sceptical.  And  when 
we  drove  down  the  hill  to  view  his  discovery,  and  were 
literally  dropped  from  the  side  road  through  a  per- 
functory gate  into  the  steepest  little  courtyard  ft  is 
possible  to  imagine,  and  she  beheld  green  stains  on  the 
rough-cast  wall  of  the  white  small  house,  her  scepticism 
increased  to  scoffing  point.  She  was  blind  to  the  charms 
of  the  pretty  pillared  porch.  The  narrowness  of  the 

19 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
entrance  passage  filled  her  with  disdain.  Though  she 
grudgingly  admitted  a  possibility  in  the  drawing- room,  it 
was  not  until  we  emerged  upon  the  terrace  that  her  pre- 
ventions vanished.-That  rise  and  fall  of  moorland  in  such 
startling  proximity,  and  the  way  in  which  the  house  and  its 
terraces  seemed  to  cling  to  the  hillside  and  be  perched  in 
space  between  the  giant  curves  and  the  dip  of  the  valley 
beyond,  fairly  took  her  breath  away.  An  artist  friend  de- 
scribed the  first  impression  of  the  view  in  these  words :  "  It  is 
so  sudden! "  For  a  long  time,  even  after  the  queer,  fascinating 
spot  had  become  our  own,  this  wonder  of  "  suddenness  " 
always  seized  us. 

It  still  seems  incomprehensible  to  us  that  anyone  could 
have  desired  to  dispossess  himself  of  so  attractive  a  place 
—an  Italian  "  Villino  "  on  the  Surrey  Highlands  is  not  to 
be  found  every  day. 

But,  after  all,  it  only  became  a  Villino  after  our  ownership. 
It  was  just  a  small  white  house  on  the  hillside  before  that. 
Heather  and  Gorse,  Bramble  and  Bracken  pressed  hard  upon 
the  small  area  of  the  property  which  was  at  all  cultivated, 
between  densely  growing  clumps  of  pine  and  holly. 
The  courtyard  is  no  longer  dank :  it  is  widened,  levelled, 
and  walled  in  against  its  high  fir-grown  strip  of  bank.  It 
is  guarded  by  bright  green  wooden  gates,  and  three  sentinel 
Cypresses  that  begin  to  mark  the  Italian  note. 
As  for  the  lower  reach— the  Reserve  Garden  now— which 
in  former  days  was  a  dumping-ground  for  horrors  of  broken 
glass,  potsherds  and  tin  cans  <a  dreary  patch  of  weeds 
and  couch  grass  withal),  it  is  unrecognizable.  Especially 
this  year,  when,  to  the  herbaceous  border,  to  the  espaliered 
apple-trees,  and  to  the  neat  little  turfed  walks,  we  have 
20 


THE  FIRST  TRANSFORMATIONS 

added  a  Rose- Garden  between  screens  of  rustic  woodwork 
which  are  to  blaze  in  the  full  luxuriance  of  the  adorable 
Wichuriana  tribe. 

Where  the  jungle  waxed  thickest,  fair  paths  have  been 
cleared.  An  avenue  bordered  by  a  double  row  of  tall 
slender  Pines  runs  from  top  to  bottom  of  the  hill,  with  a 
view  of  our  neighbour's  buttercup  field  on  the  one  hand, 
and  of  our  own  Bluebell  and  May-tree  glade  on  the  other. 
It  requires  a  positive  effort  of  imagination  to  recall  that 
this  was  a  literally 
impenetrable  thicket 
when  we  first  came. 


Nor  is  the  house  less 
altered.  As  it  was 
hinted  before,  a 
small  white  Surrey 
house  has,  by 
some  singular, 
scarce  lyinten-  *" 
tional  process,  become  enchanted  into  an  Italian 
Villino.  Of  course,  some  structural  alterations  were 
necessary. 

On  entering  the  red-tiled  hall  <once  the  pantry!),  at  the 
end  of  which  the  glass  door  giving  on  the  terrace  frames 
Verrochio's  little  naked  boy,  struggling  with  his  big  fish, 
flanked  on  each  side  by  Cypresses,  you  might  easily  fancy 
yourself  at  Fiesole  or  Bello  Sguardo,  but  for  the  unmis- 
takable northern  stamp  of  the  moorland  beyond.  Passing 
through  the  other  glass  doors  into  the  inner  hall,  the  first 

21 


y-jly    /_  '^- 
-—    -  — 


-* 
] 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

object  to  meet  the  eye  is  the  big  della  Robbia  over  the 
gracious  figure  of  the  Madonna  kneeling  against  a  blue 
sky  with  dear  little  green  clouds  upon  it.  Through 
the  open  dining-room  door  you  have  a  vision,  all  / 
golden  orange,  of  different  deep  shades.  The  Scotch  / 
builder  we  employed  for  the  / 

construction  of  the  two  new 
wings  opined  that  "the 
scheme  was  verra'  daring/' 
Personally,  every  time  we 
go  in,  it  warms  the  cockles 
of  our  hearts.  We  had 
the  golden-hued  carpet  espe- 
cially dyed.  We  chose  the 
tangerine  distemper  for  the 
walls.  We  had,  indeed, 
considerable  difficulty  in 
obtaining  the  higher  note 
for  the  curtains.  Antique 


V 


chairs,  with  seats  and  backs  — 

of    brown    leather    tooled  —  ^  —  r-—f  -  —  |— 

like  old  bindings,  we  brought     *  ---      -/  —  -j  —  - 

from  Rome/  from  whence 

also  came  the  yellow  marble  sideboard  table 

on  its  gilt-carved  legs,  above  which  a  bronzed 

cast  of  Gian  di  Bologna's  Mercury  springs 

out  from  that  orange  wall  on  a  flamboyant 

gilt    bracket,  with  a   grace  we  have  never 

seen  that  adorable   conception    display  any- 

where else.    We  found  a  handsome,  but  anaemic,  oak 

fitment  in   this  room,  filling    the  whole  right  wall  with 


U<1 


A  VILLINO  ON  SURREY  HILLS 

cupboards,  panelled  overmantel,  and  bookshelves.  It  is  no 
longer  anaemic,  but  polished  by  our  industry  to  a 
pleasing  depth  of  amber  gloss. 
So  Italy  walked  into  the  little  white  Surrey 
house  almost  as  soon  as  the 
doors  were  open  to  us.  But 
it  is  in  the  drawing-room  that 
she  has  mostly  established  her 
self.  It  is  so  filled  with  dear 
Roman  things  that  we  can  think 
ourselves  back  again  in  that 
haunt  of  all  joy,  when  we  cross 
its  threshold.  It  is  full  of  asso- 
ciations of  delightful  days,  of 
quaint  beings.  There  is  the 
rococo  paravent,  gilt  and  carved 
in  most  delicate  extravagance, 
which  we  bought  of  the  doratore 
in  the  Piazza  Nicosia.  That 
fire-screen— a  real  Bernini,  once 
the  frame  of  an  altar-piece— now 
holds  in  its  strong  bold  oval  a 
pane  of  glass  where  perhaps  some 
wan  Madonna  shewed  her  seven-pierced  heart. 
The  doratore  picked  up  these  things  in  old 
villas  and  disused  churches.  His  booth 
was  indeed  a  sight  to  see.— Having  recently 
been  on  a  visit  to  Rome,  Loki's  "great-aunt"  was 
naturally  charged  with  many  commissions  in  that  quarter. 
Armed  with  a  letter  of  directions  from  the  Italian  scholar 
of  the  family,  she  and  a  Lancashire  maid  wandered  down 

23 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
there  one  misty  afternoon  in  November,  at  an  hour  when 
all  the  crazy  little  houses  of  the  ancient  Piazza  seem  to 
fold  up  and  huddle  together  in  the  purple  Roman  dusk. 
The  doratore  s   wares  winked  through  the  dimness/  and 
having   duly    knocked    their  heads   against  wreaths    of 
dangling  frames  in  his  doorway,  the  pilgrims  proceeded  to 
steer   a  perilous  path  among  the  heaps  of  gilded  debris 
within. 

The  doratore,  made  visible  only  by  his  paper  cap,  was 
seated  in  a  nest  of  angels,  tinkering  at  a  fat  cherub  and 
whistling  gaily.  Hearing  steps  he  poked  his  head  through 
the  large  oval  of  an  empty  mirror,  and  stared  uncon- 
cernedly at  the  visitors,  whose  advance  was  punctuated 
by  cataclysms  of  falling  frames,  church  candlesticks,  and 
other  "  oggetti  religiosi." 

At  the  fifth  or  sixth  tumble,  he  rolled  away  from  his 
angels  with  unimpaired  cheerfulness,  and  apologized. 
"  Scusir  scusi  \ "     Smilingly  he  picked  up  a  broken  wing 
and  a  bit  of  acanthus  leaf.    "  Scusi ! "  again.     "  Aha !  a 
letter'/' 

Here  the  fat  laugh  merged  into  a  bellow  which  made  the 
walls  ring,  and  brought  a  dirty  little  urchin  tumbling  down 
a  ladder  from  some  loft  overhead.  The  urchin  diving 
under  a  heap  of  prostrate  apostles,  produced  a  stick  with 
an  iron  spike,  which  he  held  respectfully  under  his  patron's 
chin.  The  doratore  stuck  a  candle  on  the  spike,  lit  it, 
and  with  the  flame  in  fearful  proximity  to  his  bearded  face, 
proceeded  to  open  the  letter. 

"  Aha !  from  the  noble  family  at  Villino  Loki !  "  Here  he 
took  off  his  cap  with  a  flourish  and  did  not  replace  it. 
"The  signor  Inglese,  is  he  well?~Mi  piace.  And  the 
24 


THE  DORATORE'S  ANTIQUES 

gentilissima  signorina  who  does  me  the  honour  to  write  ?~ 
Mi  piace,  mi  place.  And  Mama  ?—Better  l~Bonissimo  \ 
Please  the  good  God  to  bring  her  again  to  Rome.  But 
not  this  month,"  waving  a  warning  finger  before  his  nose. 
"  In  April.  In  the  primavera,  Rome  is  as  salubrious  as 
she  is  beautiful.  Now  what  does  Mama  want  ?  Brackets  ? 
Angels  1~Ecco." 

He  pointed  to  a  pair  of  fantastic  creatures  that  jutted  out 
like  gargoyles  under  the  ceiling.  "What?  Not  pretty? 
Ma  I  Scusi !  they  are  antichi  bellissimi—thty  come  from 
a  castle  in  the  Abruzzi ,-  there  is  not  their  match  in  Rome/' 
Snapping  the  candle  from  the  imp,  on  whose  locks  it  was 
unheededly  guttering,  he  waved  it  round  his  own  head, 
waking  up  unexpected  companies  of  saints  on  the  walls 
and  making  pools  of  light  and  darkness  among  the  golden 
hillocks. 

"They  are  exactly  the  noble  family's   taste/'  said  the 
doratore,   replacing  his  cap  with  an  air  of  finality.     "  She 
said  cinquanta  /ire—she  shall  have  them  for  quaranta  I " 
Recognizing   that  this  incident  was  closed,  Loki's  aunt 
thought  she  would  do  a  deal  on  her  own  account,  and 
picking  up  a  little  antique  frame,  fell  back  on  the  only 
Italian  word  she  knew : 
"Quanfo?" 

The  doratore  unexpectedly  priced  the  frame  at  twenty- 
five  lire,  and  cheap  at  that,  and  all  of  a  sudden  the  little 
shop  was  filled  with  confusion.  The  would-be  purchaser 
wished  to  take  away  her  prize,  the  doratore,  misunder- 
standing, vociferated  that  nothing  would  be  broken  on  the 
sea-journey  /  the  Lancashire  maid  struck  in  with  English 
addresses  for  the  other  wares/  finally,  the  candle-bearer 

25 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
was  sent  flying  round  the  corner  to  fetch  a  friend  who,  by 
tfle  grace  of  God,  had  the  gift  of  tongues. 
Breathless,  he  returned,  with  a  bundle  of  rags  hobbling 
along  on  a  crutch,  by  his  side. 

" Benissimo ! "  exclaimed  the  doratore,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"This  gentleman,  signora,  is  a  friend  of  all  the  artists  in 
Rome!  He  knows  English,  French,  German  —  every- 
thing!" 

He  then  performed  the  ceremonious  rites  of  introduction ! 
"Signor  Guiseppi  Renzo,  a  person  of  great  worth  and 
learning.—The  noble  lady  belonging  to  the  family  of  my 
cherished  patrons,  i  Castelli." 

The  bundle  of  rags  swept  off  its  battered  hat  with  a  flourish, 
disclosing  a  wall-eye  and  a  three-weeks-old  beard,  and 
remarked,  in  Italian,  that  the  weather  was  beautiful  for  the 
time  of  the  year. 

"But  not  so  beautiful  as  in  spring/7  said  the  doratore 
encouragingly.  Upon  which  Loki's  aunt  bowed  too,  and 
smiled  and  murmured,  "Oh!  si,  si'— I  mean  no."  And 
then  feeling  dreadfully  uncouth  and  ill-mannered  in  presence 
of  so  much  courtesy,  picked  up  her  frame  again  and  looked 
helpless.  Instantly  the  interpreter  warmed  to  his  office. 
In  fluent  if  curious  English,  he  ascertained  her  wishes,  and 
then  communicated  them  with  much  gesticulation  to  the 
doratore,  who  slapped  a  fat  forehead,  exclaiming  in  a 
contrite  manner,  "  Va  bene,  va  bene  I "  Finally,  the  imp 
was  dispatched  on  a  last  errand  in  search  of  a  little  open 
carriage,  and  having  carefully  wrapped  the  frame  in  a 
copy  of  the  "  Corner e"  produced  from  his  own  pocket, 
the  bundle  of  rags  hobbled  out  into  the  Piazza,  where 
he  and  the  doratore  stood  bareheaded  to  wish  the 
26 


MORE  BRIC-A-BRAC 

ladies  a  safe  journey  to  England,  and  a  speedy  return 
to  Rome. 


It  is  little  wonder  that  the  doratore  should  cherish  us. 
The  drawing-room  of  the  Villino  on  the  Surrey  hill  is  chiefly 
furnished  out  of  his  store.  Therefrom  come  the  Venetian 
chairs,  the  huge  Goldoni  armchair,  the  two  cabinets  of 
rusty  gold.  The  hanging  cabinet  is  full  of  Venetian  glass, 
picked  up— of  all  places— at  that  roaring 
cheap  emporium,  Finocchi's,  in  the  hideous  Q 
modern  corso  fitly  dedicated  to  Vittorio 
Emanuele.  <To  think  these  bubbles  of  ethereal 
loveliness,  these  liquid  curves,  these  foam-frail 
phantasies,  should  have  been  discovered,  un- 
shattered,  in  such  a  spot!)  There  from  the 
walls  a  wistful  Giovannino,  with  pious, 
sentimental,  guileless  head  inclined,  looks 
down  from  his  golden  background,  a  true 
bit  of  early  Siennese  simplicity  and  faith.  He 
came  to  us  from  the  talons  of  a  voluble  Jew  in  the  Via  due 
Macelli,  from  which  unclean  grasp  were  likewise  rescued 
those  meek  companions,  "  St.  Bernardino  of  Siena "  and 
"  St.  Antoninus/7  on  the  opposite  wall.  St.  Bernardino's 
face  is  quite  out  of  drawing,  but,  nevertheless,  rarely 
has  any  presentment  been  more  impregnated  with  holy 
benignity.  The  gentle  pair  hang  just  above  a  statue 
of  Polyhymnia.  .  .  .  Oh !  that  "  Manifattura  di  Signa,"  in 
the  dark  purlieus  of  the  Via  Babuino !  It  is  a  blessing  that 
we  only  discovered  it  the  last  week  of  our  four  months' 
stay  in  Rome,  and  that  our  resources  were  then  at  a  low 

27 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

ebb  /  else,  indeed,  the  exiguous  limits  of  our  new  country 
home  never  would  have  held  our  purchases.  Another 
"  Madonna "  between  the  rose-coloured  curtains  in  the 
narrow  window. 

Yes,  indeed,  there  are  a  great  many  "  Madonnas  "  about 
the  place.  There  is  an  undeniably  papistical  atmosphere.— 
An  old  gentleman,  of  developed  intellectuality,  who  stumbled 
in  upon  us  shortly  after  our  establishment,  could  not  con- 
ceal the  horrible  impression  it  made  upon  him.  His  thoughts 
would  have  been  easy  to  read  even  if  the  hurry  of  his 
adieux  had  not  so  plainly  proclaimed  his  disgust.  Seeing 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  majolica  statuette  in  question,  we 
<perhaps  with  a  little  malice)  informed  him  that  it  was 
known  as  the  "  Madonna  del  Bado."  It  was  then  he  rose, 
not  quite  swallowing  down  his  "  Faugh ! " 
"  ybu  had  not  expected  to  find  such  superstition  abroad  in 
an  enlightened  age/'  we  murmured  politely.  "  We  cling  to 
these  old-world  symbols—some  of  us  by  conviction,  others 
for  mere  love  of  the  beautiful  past.— A  little  mistake  ?  The 
wrong  house,  say  you?  How  could  we  have  been  so 
stupid  as  not  to  guess!— Of  course,  you  wanted  the 
bungalow  at  the  other  end  of  the  village.  Yes,  Mrs. 
Ludwigsohn  is  everything  that  you  can  desire  .to  meet. 
Up-to-date  cap-a-pie.  Socialism,  rationalism,  suffragism. 
YOU  can  begin  on  the  suffrage  :  she  will  saw  the  air  with 
her  right  hand  in  a  convincing  platform  manner.  A  de- 
lightful, capable  woman !  She  feeds  her  infants  scientifi- 
cally on  proteids.  And  there  are  Rontgen  pictures- 
anatomical,  you  know— in  the  hall,  that  you  will  find  more 
inspiring  than  della  Robbia.  Oh,  you  will  get  on  with 
her  splendidly.  We  know  her  ...  slightly.  Indeed,  we 
28 


AN  OLD-TIME  NOTE 

blush  when  we  think  of  our  one  and  only  meeting :  it  was 
so  inharmonious  on  our  part.  She  began  to  argue— and 
instantly  had  us  in  a  cleft  stick :  "  Soul  ? "  she  exclaimed, 
fiercely  interrupting  an  incautious  remark.  "  Soul  ?  there  is 
no  such  thing.  I  deny  it— Prove/7  she  cried, "  prove  I  have 
a  soul!" 

Poor  lady,  how  could  we  ?  No— the  Villino  is  certainly 
no  place  for  the  higher  critic ,-  for  the  lady  of  'isms.  We 
are  not  rationalistic  in  our  tastes  /  we  love  old  and  simple 
things/  prefer  to  take  much  for  granted  in  life  and  enjoy 
the  good  peace  that  is  vouchsafed. 


29 


Ill 

WHEN  we  first  began  to  own  a  garden  we  could  not 
bring  ourselves  to  wait  in  patience  for  developments.  We 
expected  our  beds  to  bloom  as  by  magic.  We  vehemently 
ordered  pot-plants  because  no  seedlings  could  be  expected 


;VU 


to  "do  anything  "  in  June  / 
and  the  disproportion  between 
bills  and  the  result  filled 
us  with  dismay.  But  a  garden 
is  at  once  the  most  delightful 
and  cunning  of  teachers.  How 
kindly  are  the  virtues  it  incul- 
cates I—Patience,  faith,  hope,  tenderness,  gratitude,  re- 
signation,  things  in  themselves  as  fragrant  and  beautiful  as 
30 


SIX  GARDENING  VIRTUES 

the  flowers,  or  like  the  herbs,  a  little  repellent  of  aspect, 
but  sweet  in  their  bruised  savour. 

Now  we  have  even  been  taught  to  take  pleasure  and 
comfort  from  the  vision  of  the  beds  in  their  winter  pre- 
paration, where  with  the  believer's  eye,  we  anticipate  the 
fulfilment  of  the  spring.  In  the  little  Dutch  Garden  under 

the  new  wing, 
the  two  long 
beds  between 
theclippedBil- 
berry  hedges 
are  full  of  com- 
pact cushions 
of  Forget-me- 
not.  Through 
these  the 
green  noses 
of  the  china- 
blue  H  y  a- 
cinths,  that 

are  to  make  lakes  of  colour  and  scent  at  the  end  of  March, 
are  beginning  to  push  upwards. 

The  winter  has  been  very  mild.— Another  garden  lesson : 
too  much  spoiling  in  infancy  is  bound  to  produce  forward- 
ness in  the  young,  and  the  inevitable  result  of  withering 
snubs ! 

When  the  Hyacinths  have  faded,  the  Forget-me-nots  will 
have  spread  a  sheet  of  tender  beauty  over  the  unsightliness. 
<Did  we  mention  that  a  garden  teaches  charity?)  And 
between  this  flying  scud  of  blue  foam  the  Darwin  Tulips 
will  have  already  reared  bold  green  snake  heads  which  will 

31 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
gradually  become  invaded  by  tints  of  mauve,  rose,  dark 
purple,   until  the  day  when  their  glorious  chalices  will 
open,  as  if  cut  out  of  living  jewels,  translucent  to  the 
light 

The  Dutch  Garden  is  bounded  by  a  clipped  yew  hedge  on 
two  sides,  divided  by  a  rustic  archway  where  Pink  Dorothy 
rambles  in  June  and  onwards.  Against  this  hedge  there 
are  two  long  beds  lying  to  the  south,  filled  with  crimson 
and  red  roses :  in  spring  edged  with  Darwins  and  Arabis, 
before  Mme.  Normand  Levavasseur  spreads  her  dis- 
appointing maroon  clusters.  On  the  north  side  the  brick 
wall  of  the  terrace,  divided  in  its  turn  opposite  the  arch- 
way by  brick  steps,  is  flanked  by  Darwin  tulip  beds.  The 
beds  under  the  side  of  the  house  to  the  west  have  also 
Darwins  with  a  carpet  of  Forget-me-nots  and  a  fringe 
of  Arabis.  The  space  that  runs  back  to  the  outer 
wall  under  the  study  windows  is  planted  with  Gloire  de 
Versailles,  Pyrus  Japonica  and  the  ubiquitous  Tulips  and 
Forget-me-nots. 

There  is  one  thing  we  have  succeeded  in  impressing  on  the 
patient  and  kindly  Adam,  and  that  is  that  we  "  cannot  bear 
bald  spaces/'  Our  bulbs  lie  as  close  as  they  can  without 
injuring  each  other.  Our  Wallflowers,  even  now,  in 
January,  jostle ! 

In  the  bed  that  runs  right  along  the  bricked  upper  terrace, 
there  lie,  awaiting  the  call  of  the  different  months  <please 
add  docility  and  punctuality  to  the  moral  list),  behind  a 
deep  border  of  Mrs.  Sinkins,  a  double  row  of  Crocuses,  a 
row  of  Thomas  More  Tulips,  a  little  hedge  of  white  and 
red  "  Polyantha"  Roses,  and  groups  of  "  Candidum"  Lilies. 
At  intervals,  on  the  top  of  the  terrace  wall,  are  large 


DUTCH  BULBS  AND  ROSES 

Compton  vases  which  will  foam  with  Forgetme-Nots, 
and  thrust  clusters  of  Hyacinths  up  against  the  Moor  by 
and  by.  fust  now  they  carry  little  yellow  torches  of 
Retinospora  Aurea,  which  Adam  said,  when  he  first  planted 
them,  looked,  he  thought,  "  very  lonely/7  but  which,  each 
rising  from  a  field  of  green  moss,  stand  out,  we  think,  with 
a  classic  dignity  against  the  sombre  magnificence  of  those 
rolling  winter  hills. 


33 


IV 

AND  did  we  say  that  one  could  ever  in  any  circum- 
stances wish  Susan  into  the  dogstar?  Alas!  poor  dear 
&'  little  Susan,  she  reposes 

{1^^'  in  a  raw,  ostentatious 
grave  in  the  Oak  Tree 
Glade  with  six  bulb 
spikes  at  the  top  of  the  mound. 
"We  should  like  to  put  a  granite 
stone  there  with  the  words :"  Here 
lies  Susan,  a  good  dog/'  All 
that  was  possible  was  done  to 
save  her,  and  she  was  the  most 
pathetic,  gentle,  patient  creature/ 
at  the  very  end,  seeking  blindly  with 
one  small  paw  for  her  master. 
Poor  Juvenal  was  so  disconsolate 
that  we  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
We  hit,  however,  on  the  happy 
thought  of  purchasing  a  small  white 
HighlandTerrier  puppy  from  a  litter 
on  sale  in  the  neighbourhood.  Bet- 
tine  <thus  she  has  been  christened 
with  a  fine  disregard  of  local  colour) 
arrived,  a  dirty,  cringing,  abject 
little  wretch/  but  the  atmosphere 
of  Villino  Loki  has  wrought  so 

great  a  change  that  she  is  now  a  perfect  imp  of  mischief  and 
general  cheekiness.  The  Master  of  the  House  says  she 
is  like  a  Paris  gamin,  and  that  Gavroche  is  the  only  name 
34 


FORBIDDEN  TERRITORY 

that  befits  her.  The  days  of  cringing  are  certainly  over. 
Her  long  ears  cocked,  her  wide  mouth  derisively  open,  she 
defies  authority,  with  attitudes  and  expressions  that  can 
only  be  transcribed  by  such  re- 
marks as  "Pip,  Pip,"  or  the 
gesture  which  the  French  know 
as  Pied-de-nez. 

The  other  dogs  at  first  protested 
fiercely  against  this  substitute 
for  their  beloved  Susan 
even  Arabella  curling 
ferocious  lip,  and  strik- 
ing out  with  her 
fringed  paw.  But 
now  they  have 
accepted  the  new 
comrade  with  all 
the  generosity  of 
their  fine  charac- 
ters. Loki  himself 
makes  no  objec- 
tion, except  when  v\\ 
she  ventures  upon  f 
territory  which  he 
regards  as  pecu- 
liarly his  own  / 
such  as  the  grand- 
maternal  bedroom. 
The  month  that  has  taken  away  the  harmless  humble  life  of 
Juvenal's  fox-terrier,  has  also  brought  the  news  of  England's 
loss  in  one  of  her  most  gallant  sons.  He  was  a  friend  of 

35 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
the  household,  and  Loki,  I  am  sure,  does  not  forget—for  a 
long  memory  is  one  of  the  Pekinese  characteristics—how 
the  South  Pole  hero  played  hide-and-seek  with  him  in  his 
puppyhood  for  a  whole  hour,  one  summer's  day,  like  a 
very  child  himself.  The  family  of  Villino  Loki  have 
memories,  too,  of  that  friendship  which  they  valued  so 
highly ;  and  they  will  always  carry  the  vivid  picture  of  the 
strong  brown  face,  with  the  blue  eyes  that  were  at  once  as 
guileless  as  a  child's  and  full  of  a  far-away  vision,  as  if 
they  never  ceased  to  contemplate  their  high  and  distant  goal. 
The  world  is  crowded  with  bumptious  people  who  do 
nothing  at  all  that  is  useful,  if  they  do  not  do  harm.  Here 
was  a  man  who  had  already  accomplished  mighty  achieve- 
ment and  was  set  on  mightier  still,  and  there  never  was 
anyone  so  modest,  so  anxious  to  push  others  forward  and 
keep  himself  in  the  background.  He  was  asked  by  one  of 
us  to  write  a  line  in  an  autograph  book,  and  he  set  down 
characteristically  a  tribute  to  another : 

"  The  friends  thou  hast,  and  their  adoption  tried, 
Grapple  them  to  thy  soul  with  hooks  of  steel.  .  .  ." 

We  laughed  <after  that  futile  fashion  that  becomes  a  kind 
of  habit  nowadays)  and  said,  "We  always  think  that 
sounds  so  uncomfortable  ! " 

He  raised  those  blue  eyes,  half  humorously,  half  depre- 
catingly.      "You  make   me   feel  ashamed  of  being  in- 
corrigibly romantic/' 
It  was  we  who  felt  ashamed. 

"  We  are  sure/'  we  answered,  "  you  have  a  good  friend 
somewhere/' 
36 


TOM'S  GRAND  MANNERS 

"Yes/'  he  said,  "  the  best  ever  a  man  had/' 
We  are  glad  to  think  that  friendship  was  with  him  all 
through  and  at  the  end.  In  one  of  the  last  letters  ever 
received  from  the  doomed  Antarctic  Expedition  the  tribute 
5s  paid  again :  "  No  words  of  mine/'  writes  he,  "  can 
describe  what  he  is." 


The  birds  have  eaten  every  single  bud  on  our  baby  almond 
trees— the  first  year  that  they  have  had  any  flower  buds  at 
all.  Ungrateful  little  wretches !  the  Master  of 
the  Villino  sees  personally  to  the  replenishing 
of  the  numerous  bird-baths  and  drinking- 
pans/  and  Juvenal  provides  them  with 
cocoa-nuts  filled  with  lard  and  baskets  full 
of  crumbs— aided  by  Gold-Else,  the  cook, 
who  loves  little  creatures  in  fur  and 
feather  as  much  as  the  rest  of  the 
household.  Tom,  the  old  cat,  is  very 
happy  under  this  lady's  kind  rule, 
and,  to  show  his  appreciation, 
accompanies  her  in  stately  fashion 
every  night  up  the  kitchen  stairs 
to  her  bedroom  door.  The  act 
of  courtesy  accomplished,  she  as 
solemnly  reconducts  him  down- 
stairs again  to  spread  his  couch  for  him— a  sheet  of  brown 
paper,  by  his  request. 

The  Hyacinths  are  breaking  out  of  their  green  hoods, 
shaking  blue  bells  /  but  our  Scillas  seem  to  be  going  to  dis- 

37 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

appoint  us.  This  sandy  soil  on  our  Surrey  heights  is  not 
at  all  appreciated  by  bulbs.  Snowdrops  will  have  nothing 
to  say  to  us,  unless  in  a  prepared  bed.  Narcissus  Poeticus 
disappeared  altogether  after  one  year's  blooming.  We  are 
trying  to  naturalize  Bluebells  in  a  glade  which  we  have 
cleared— and  in  which  this  year  has  been  planted  an  avenue 
of  pink  May  trees,  to  end  at  the  bottom  of  the  dell  in  a 
group  of  white  Azaleas— but  we  are  not  at  all  sure  that  we 
shall  succeed.  However,  we  have  our  compensations: 
Azaleas  thrive,  and  so  do  Rhododendrons.  We  are 
year  by  year  adding  more  of  the  former  to  the  wild 
slopes. 

Below  the  terrace,  yclept  the  "  Hemicycle,"  a  path  bor- 
dered with  Azalea  Mollis  was  a  perfect  glory  last  May, 
although  it  had  only  been  planted  the  preceding  autumn. 
The  "  Hemicycle  "  was  a  little  fairy  glade  of  Crocus  a  week 
ago,  the  second  in  February/  and  we  have  still  hope  of 
the  Scillas  which  surround  our  bereft  almond  trees.  A 
rough  wall  rises  from  it  to  the  Upper  Terrace,  over  which 
Dorothy  Rambler  will  fling  its  lovely  blooms' in  immense 
trails  by  and  by  /  and  its  stones  themselves  hold  a  never- 
ending  succession  of  delight  in  the  shape  of  Arabis,  Au- 
bretia,  Cerastium,  Thrift,  and  the  like.  Yellow  roses 
climb  up  to  meet  the  Dorothy,  and  the  dear  little  pink  China 
Rose  grows  in  bushes  all  along  the  front  between  the 
Lavender  plants  which  we  are  trying  to  acclimatise,  but 
which,  year  after  year,  are  blighted  by  the  frost  before 
they  have  had  time  to  grow  strong. 
Satisfactory  as  our  wall-garden  is,  there  is  a  wall-garden 
at  a  cottage  in  a  neighbouring  village  which  never  fails  to 
fill  us  with  envy  every  time  we  see  it.  It  belongs  to  two 
38 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

maiden  ladies,  whom  we  have  christened  Tweedle-  Ann  and 


*;.-, 


Tweedle-Liza.    They  are  so  extra- 
ordinarily like  each  other  that  even 
they  themselves   <we    have   heard) 
hardly  know  which  is  which.    They 
have  the  same  rotundity  of  figure, 
the  same  uncertain  obliquity  in  one 
eye,  the  same  cheerful  rosy  visage, 
the  same  sleek  bands  of  grey  hair. 
When  the  Master  of  the  House  was  a 
young  man,  an  Irish  servant  was  heard 
to  observe  to  him,  gazing  rapturously 
at  him  as  he  walked  away  from  her 
vision,  all  unconsciously,  in  his  shoot- 
ing-garb:   "And  indeed  he's  a   lovely 
gentleman.    Them  jars  of  legs  !  "    <As 
a  matter  of  fact,  Loki's    Grandfather 
has  very  nice  legs.)    But  Tweedle-Ann 
and   Tweedle-Liza,  in    short,   sensible 
grey  tweed  skirts,  bending  their  portly 
forms  over  their  wall  garden,  have  more 
than  often  presented  to  the  passer-by  a 
vision  .  .  . 

The  Japanese  say  that  reticence  is  the 
very  soul  of  art.    Our  aspirations  are 
always  towards  the  artistic,  but  there  is 
something  touching  in  four  .  .  .  exactly 
similar  .  .  .  side  by  side  .  .  .  ! 
To  digress  once  more:  Loki's  Grand- 
father is  no  doubt  a  man  of  fine  proportions  /  though  he  is 
not  at  all  plump,  he  has  all  the  athlete's  dread  of  becoming 
40 


A  TERRIFYING  GOOD  WISH 

so.  Once  when  we  were  stranded  at  a  small  wayside 
station  in  Ireland,  without  even  a  bench  to  sit  upon,  he 
began  to  while  away  the  time  by  testing  his  weight  on  the 
automatic  machine.  The  indicating  needle  travelled  consi- 
derably  further  than  he  expected !  He  was  standing,  trans- 
fixed, staring  at  the  pointing  finger,  when  a  very  old  woman 
with  a  shawl  over  her  head,  holding  a  very  small  boy  by 
the  hand,  suddenly  broke  into  loud  paeans  beside  him : 
"God  bless  your  honour !— Isn't  it  the  grand  gentleman 
you  are !  Glory  be  to  God,  may  you  grow  larger,  and 
larger,  and  larger ! " 

"For  heaven's  sake/'  cried  Loki's  Grandfather,  wheeling 
round  in  horror,  "  don't  say  such  a  thing ! " 
"  And  indeed  I  do,  yer  honour.— Look  at  him  now,"  she 
went  on,  shaking  the  little  creature  she  held  by  the  hand, 
"  you'll  never  see  a  finer  gentleman.  Don't  you  wish  you 
had  a  Dada  like  that?" 

Then  she  burst  out  again  and  continued  to  wish  him 
increase  in  Sybilline  tones.  They  were  both  so  extra- 
ordinarily serious,  she  in  her  benisons,  he  in  his  terror  of 
the  curse,  that  as  Loki's  Grandmother  sat  on  her  trunk 
she  was  weak  with  laughter. 


The  Master  of  the  Villino  had  a  charming  little  experience 
last  spring.  Some  time  before,  in  the  winter,  he  fell  into 
conversation  with  an  old  sweep,  who  was  tramping  up  the 
hill,  the  evidence  of  his  life-work  thick  upon  him.  They 
discoursed  of  many  things,  for  the  sweep  had  a  wide  range 
of  interests.  They  spoke  of  the  moorland  place  as  it  was 
in  bygone  days/  and  of  the  learned  Professor  whose 

41 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

eulogies  first  put  it  into  fashion  /  of  the  lectures  on  Science 
delivered  by  this  latter/  and  of  the  way  in  which  the 
spring  first  shows  itself  in  the  lower  copses  while  it  is  still 
winter  on  our  heights.  The  sweep  knew  a  dell  where  the 
primroses  were  always  a  month  in  advance  of  any  other 
spot.  He  had  a  soul  for  primroses,  unlike  Wordsworth's 
horrible  Peter— which  reminds  me  of  the  delicious  remark 
made  to  Loki's  young  mistress  by  an  old  pensioner  in 
Chelsea  Gardens.  He  led  her  to  the  plot  he  cultivated  for 
himself,  with  all  the  childish  eagerness  of  the  aged,  and 
pointed  to  a  single  yellow  crocus,  blown  this 
way  and  that  by  the  wind,  for  it  was  a  shrewish 
day.  "Look  at  it,  Missie!"  he  cried.  "It's 
as  playful  as  a  kitten/' 

We  do  not  know  at  what  hour  in  the  bleak  late 
February  morning  the  little  box  was  left  in  the 
porch.      It  was    found    there    by    the 
earliest  maid,  and  brought  to  the  Master 
of  the    House   with  his  letters  in  due 
course/    a    box    that    ob- 
viously had  lately  contained 
carbolic  soap.     Inside  in  a 
nest     of     moss,    carefully 
covered    with    red    bramble 
leaves,  was  a  bunch  of  prim- 
roses   tied   with   red   wool, 
and  the  following  "verses  ": 

"  Beneath  the  moss  and  the  mast, 
Though  the  weather  has  been  wet  and  cold, 
I  manage  to  raise  my  head 
Down  in  the  Sussex  wold/' 
42 


A  LOCAL  POET 

Thus  it  began,  speaking  in  the  name  of  the  Primrose,  to 
enter,  rapidly  and  boldly  into  the  sweep's  personality : 

"  To-day  I  passed  by  the  way, 
So  I  stayed  and  picked  you  a  few, 
To  show  I  do  not  forget 
The  chat  I  had  with  you." 

Here  the  muse  got  a  little  tired/  but  it  ended  up  with 
unimpaired  cheerfulness : 

"  I  hope  you  are  hale  and  well 
And  now  I  must  say  Addue, 

Yours  respectfully, 

STAR/' 

Over  the  page  there  was  a  charming  P.S. : 

"  Perhaps  you  have  younger  fingers 
The  flowers  to  unfold, 
Mine  are  rather  clumsy 
Being  big  and  old. 

Pleasant  Hours, 
Live  long/' 

It  is  the  kind  of  little  incident  that  seems  to  happen  at 
Villino  Loki,  where  animals  and  human  beings  are  queer 
and  unexpected,  and  live  together  in  simplicity  and  cheer- 
fulness. 


43 


V 

TRAVELLING  along  the  pleasant  path  of  life,  on  the 
reverse  side  of  the  hill,  the  downward  course  <how  graphic 
is  the  French  of  it  for  the  later  and  "  smaller  half "  of  our 
allotted  span :  sur  le  retour),  there  is  a  tendency  to  dwell 
more  upon  memories  and  proportionately  less  on  ambitions. 
The  prospect  now  ahead,  placid  and  mellowed  as  it  may 
be,  naturally  dwindles  to  narrower  margins.  Its  interest 
is  more  of  the  immediate  order  /  deals  mostly  with  hopes 
and  doings  of  the  coming  season.  And,  the  circle  of 
recollection  widening,  things  distant  in  the  past  appeal 
with  proportionate  insistency  to  the  mind's  eye. 
I  believe  this  is  the  case  with  all  thinking  creatures  <says 
Loki's  Grandpa— who  has  fallen  into  a  reminiscent  mood). 
With  one  whose  lazy  and  musing  propensities,  whose 
delight  in  day-dreams  has  proved  his  paramount  weakness, 
the  habit  of  "  dreaming  backwards  "  and  hunting  for  old 
impressions  has  become  as  haunting,  in  these  years  of  the 
sixth  decade,  as  was,  in  salad  days,  the  "dreaming 
forward  "  and  the  straining  for  a  sight  of  things  still  below 
the  horizon. 

For  instance:  in  a  life  which  has  always  been  one  of 
constant  book-companionship,  the  printed  passages  which 
most  delight  me  are  those  which,  having  been  first  read  in 
another  age  and  re-discovered  in  this  one,  bring  back  a 
pulse  of  some  long  forgotten  impression.  The  impression 
may  be  one  that  sober  and  critical  memory  does  not  record 
as  having  been  so  particularly  enthralling  at  the  time—yet 
it  now  comes  back  with  a  subtle  fragrance  all  its  own. 
The  long  darkness  of  winter  provides  the  richest  reading 
44 


1  A 


"DREAMING  BACKWARDS" 

hours.     And  if  the  page-turning  is  by  the  side 
of  a  wood  fire— as  happens  on  this,  the  coldest 
day  of  the  year— if  it  is  in  a  deep  armchair 
with  the  lamp  throwing  its  quiet  rays  over 
one's  shoulder,  why,  it  is  apt  to  become  inter- 
spersed with  long  spells  of  wide-eyed  dreaming. 
The  fire   burns   with  that  special  clearness, 
that  kind  of  conscious  eagerness 
which  one  observes  inside  the 
hearth     upon     a 
keen  frosty  night. 
In    the    town    a 
frosty  night  is  but 
a  cold  night.    But 
here,  on  our  coun- 
try hill-side,  when 
winter,  albeit  offi- 
cially over,  is  in 
reality    still   with 
us,  a  frosty  night 
inevitably     turns 
our  thoughts   to 

the  threatened  hopes  of  the  garden. 
\  Now,  as  one  who  knows  practically 
'  nought  of  the  gardener's  "  Arte  and 
Mysterie,"  my  interest  in  the  matter  is  of  the 
irresponsible  kind.  I  look  forward,  of  course,  and 
keenly,  to  the  satisfying  display,  first  of  our  sappy, 
turgid  fragrant  Hyacinth  beds  in  the  Dutch  Garden  (some- 
how, the  Dutch  Garden  seems  to  belong  more  parti- 
cularly to  my  own  side  of  the  Villino— to  be  a  precinct 

45 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

of  my  study  in  fact)  than  to  the  proud-pied  array  of 
the  subsequent  Tulips,  nodding  in  the  breeze  over  their 
bed  of  close  clustering  Forget-me-Nots.  This  is  the  annual 
treat  provided  in  the  spring— for  Grandpa's  especial 
behoof  at  Villino  Loki— by  the  industrious  care  of  the 
knowledgeable  ladies.  Nevertheless,  as  I  say,  my  interest 
is  of  the  general  order  /  not  of  details  /  not  of  ways  and 
means.  I  expect,  in  the  maturity  of  every  season, 
delightful  achievements,  and  find  them/  but  I  take  little 
part  in  their  planning.  I  am  of  no  use  for  device  and  not 
called  upon  in  council.  I  thankfully  enjoy  the  results/ 
and  this  is  perhaps  not  the  worst  part  the  Master  of  the 
House  could  play  in  the  year's  transaction. 
Only  on  two  occasions  have  I  volunteered  a  suggestion 
with  regard  to  planting— and  both  are  related  to  early,  very 
early,  reminiscences. 

Creepers  of  all  sorts  we  have  in  profusion.  Ivy,  of 
course,  and  Jessamine  and  Honeysuckle,  and  the  gorgeous, 
if  short-lived,  Virginia- Ampilopsis  its  name,  I  believe.  But 
there  is  one  thing,  I  pointed  out,  I  must  have  also,  and 
that  is  the  blue  clustering,  the  incomparably  fragrant 
Glycine  of  my  early  childhood's  days.  Wisteria  is  its  proper 
English  name. 

Odoriferous  bushes,  again,  we  have,  of  every  description. 
Ribes,  Cassia,  Gummy  Cistus,  what  not  ?— lurk  in  ambus- 
cade at  the  turning  of  paths  to  waylay  you  with  their  gush 
of  essence,  not  to  speak  of  the  Azaleas  in  their  banks  /  but 
all  these  perfumes,  in  their  subtleness,  belong  to  the  middle 
years.  No  memories  of  the  complete  freshness  of  time 
cleave  to  them  such  as  belong  to  the  simple  Sweet 
Briar. 
46 


FLOWER  LOVES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

So,  now,  the  two  rooted  creatures  of  the  Villino,  which 
may  be  said  to  exist  there  more  ^    () 
specially  for  the  behoof  of  Loki's   nHHMUUUL 
Grandpa,  are  the  Briar 
bushes  at  the  end  of  the 
Lily  Walk  and  by  the 
Schone  Aussicht,  and  the 
still  tender  but  promising 
Wisteria  climbers  in  the 
re-entering  and  most  shel- 
tered   corner   of  his  study 
walls. 

And  it  is  for  those  young 
hopeful   Wisterias   that   on 
this    frosty  night  I   feel    a 
concern.    Last  year  we  had 
a   score    or   so    of   purple 
clusters/    we    look    to    a 
goodly  increase  during  the 
coming      Renouveau.~<you 
perceive    the   old,    obsolete 
French    word    for    Spring 
comes  back  of  itself  !>    The 
anticipation     of    the     near 
future,  within  the  shrinking 
vista  of  coming  pleasures,  elicits 
as  usual  a  return  to  the  widen- 
ing  past.     In  this  case  the  past  that  is 
recalled  is   that  of  a  childhood  spent  in 
France. 


47 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
The  book  lies  forgotten  on  my  knee.  The  brown 
Meerschaum  grows  cold  in  my  hand.  My  eyes,  lost  in 
musings  among  the  flame-fringed  logs,  now  peer  beyond 
the  past  half-century— at  a  time  which  seems  verily  as  far 
distant  and  as  little  related  to  the  present  as  that  year  1636 
stamped  and  still  faintly  discernible  on  the  antique  cast-iron 
backplate  of  the  fireplace.  ...  I  see  a  farm-house  in  a 
village  of  that  province  which  in  ancient  days  was  known 
as  Ile-de-France  <I  hate  your  modern  regime  departements), 
by  name  Mesnil-le-Roy  /  not  far  distant  from  Mantes,  the 
natty  little  town  on  the  upper  and  green-watered  Seine, 
generally  adverted  to  as  M antes-la- Jolie. 
Therein,  during  nearly  a  whole  year,  for  reasons  of  delicate 
health,  resided  a  certain  very  small  English  boy— French 
enough  in  those  tender  years.  In  this  delectable  old  place, 
so  full  of  good-smelling  things  in  their  seasons :  hay,  and 
grain,  and  fruit,  and  at  all  times  the  health-restoring  cow, 
the  house  was  in  the  spring-time  covered  with  Glycine. 
And  with  the  adorable  Glycine  the  small  boy,  who  loved 
flowers  as  much  as  milk  and  fruits  and  beasts,  fell  forth- 
with in  love. 

How  that  coquettish  Jappy  plant  came  originally  to 
find  a  footing  in  so  rustic  a  corner  as  Mesnil-le-Roy  is 
more  than  I  can  account  for.  Your  French  peasant  is 
not,  as  a  rule,  addicted  to  the  delights  of  flower  raising  / 
and,  in  those  distant  days,  Wisteria  was  still  something 
of  a  rarity  anywhere.  But  there  it  was,  already  in 
the  sturdiest  strength  of  its  age,  embracing  the  old 
walls,  forcing  its  fibrous  wood  into  every  cranny  of  the 
greystone,  framing  every  window,  striving  up  the  chimney 
stacks— and  filling  the  air  with  honey  sweetness.  It  must 
48 


GLyCINE! 

have  taken  at  least  two  score  years  to  reach  such  a 
size. 

With  the  English  boy,  then  barely  four,  it  was  a  first  love. 
He  feasted  on  it  with  his  every  sense.  From  morning  till 
eve  he  would  be  sucking  the  base  of  some  blue  corolla 
plucked  from  its  calyx,  for  the  sake  of  that  intense  sweet- 
ness to  which  the  thing  owes  its  Gallic  name  of  Glycine  ,• 
he  would,  whenever  he  could,  run  round  and  rejoice  his 
eyes  with  the  delicacies  of  pale  green  and  purple,  drink  in 
the  scent,  and  listen  hypnotized  to  the  never-ceasing  buzz 
of  honey-seekers  in  the  sunshine.  And,  in  the  morning, 
his  first  thought,  as  he  crept  out  of  his  small  truckle-bed, 
was  to  go  and  plunge  his  hands  into  the  dew  that  glittered 
upon  these  Glycine  branches  nodding  in  from  every  side 
at  the  mansarde  window. 

Like  all  first  loves  it  was,  as  you  see,  violent.  Well  do  I 
remember  how,  for  months  after  he  was  removed  back  into 
the  Paris  house,  the  small  boy  would  ply  his  mother  with 
the  yearning  question,  infantilely  incorrect  but  vernacular : 
" Quand  que  nous  retournerons  aux  Glycines,  Mcananl" 
always  to  receive  the  non-committal  but  consoling : 
"  Tantot  .  .  .  tantot." 

This  "tantot"  is  the  wonderful  " by-and-by "  which  never 
comes  to  be ! 

And  like  all  first  loves  this  one  was  utterly  forgotten  in 
later  years— to  reappear,  however,  in  the  sere  and  yellow  of 
age.  For  years  a  many,  a  purple  Wisteria  spreading  about 
the  eaves  of  a  south-country  house,  was  to  me  only  a 
purple  Wisteria.  It  was  a  creeper,  and  it  was  nothing 
more.  It  was  not  a  "  Glycine  "  until  I  had  a  creepered  wall 
of  my  own.  Then  it  surged  before  imagination's  eye  with 

d  49 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
all  the  glamour  of  Its  premieres   amours,  to  which,  in 
accordance  with  the  old  French  saw,  "on   en   revient 
toujours." 

Now,  therefore,  at  Villino  Loki,  nothing  will  serve  but  a 
Glycine  to  creep  along  those  walls  which  are  more  espe- 
cially my  own  /  to  embrace  my  south  windows  and  nod  in 
at  the  casement.  And  the  suave-breathed  Eastern  beauty, 
first  brought  over  to  the  West  and  god-fathered  by  Pro- 
fessor Wister,  will  privily  remain  Glycine  for  me/  although 
I  may  draw  the  indulgent  visitor's  attention  to  her  under 
the  better-known  name  of  Wisteria  Sinensis.— I  have,  by  the 
way,  an  ever-ready  pretext  ,•  for  I  learn  from  "  The  Lan- 
guage of  Flowers "  that  the  special  significance  of  this 
blossom  is  "  Welcome,  fair  stranger ! "  I  mean  to  have  a 
profusion  of  it,  for  old  sake's  sake.  Besides,  is  it  not  meet 
that  Loki  should  not  be  deprived,  during  his  villeggiatura,  of 
the  company  of  some  Chinese  living  thing  ? 


50 


VI 

STRANGE  how  sharp  and  detailed  will  some  of  our 
very  early  memories  remain  in  after  life,  when  even  impor- 
tant scenes  of  our  later  years  are  so  easily  forgotten !  That 
old  farm  of  MesniMe-Roy  is  still  a  clear  picture,  vignetted, 
so  to  speak,  upon  grey  pages  of  oblivion.  ...  I  can  yet  see 
the  orchard,  strewn  with  myriad  fallen  apples— the  byres, 
whereto  at  sundown  returned  the  slow-pacing,  dreamy, 
placid-eyed  milch  cows/  the  giant  walnut-tree,  with  one  of 
its  main  branches  blasted  by  lightning— blasted  on  the  stormy 
night,  during  which  "  thunder  had  fallen  "  freely  <as  the  little 
boy  heard  the  labourers  say,  aw  e-struck,  in  the  morning  / 
but  during  which  he  had  slept  under  the  brown-tiled  roof 
without  the  slightest  disturbance).  ...  I  can  see  the  Four 
Banal,  that  co-operative  bread-oven,  a  relic  of  mediaeval 
institutions,  which  was  still  common  enough  in  those  days  ,• 
where  you  could  have  such  an  ent  rancing  view  of  lambent 
blue  flames  lined  with  yellow  when  the  door  stood  open  to 
receive  the  unbaked  loaves/  and  where  the  air  smelt  so 
divinely  of  hot  wheaten  crust  when  they  were  removed  on 
completion. . . . 

It  was,  by  the  way,  on  that  allur- 
ing spot— the  boy  used  to  find 
his  way  there  regularly  on  the 
days  when  on  cuisait— that 
he  heard  a  certain  remark, 
which  to  his  child  ears  had 
no    special   meaning,   but 
which  remainedonmemory's 
tablets  to  assume  later  an   __. 
interesting  significance.  The 
country  folk  were  very  kind.    The  little  English  boy,  left  for 

8 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

the  good  of  his  health  at  the  farm  of  pere  Pelletier,  was 
known  to  everybody/  was  accepted  and  treated  as  one 
of  the  community.  Rarely  did  he  stroll,  as  might  any 
roaming  puppy  dog,  into  an  open  door  of  the  village 
without  being  supplied  with  a  generous  sup  of  milk,  or  a 
tartine  de  raisine/  or  again,  in  season,  with  a  pomme 
cuite.  The  roasted  apple,  be  it  said,  browning  and 
lusciously  oozing  caramel,  was  a  standing  affair  in  that 

old-world  village.    There 
was,  however,    on    that 
day,  a  benighted  wayfarer 
who  obviously  could  not 
reconcile  with  these  rus- 
tic    surroundings     the 
yellow-haired,  barelegged 
little  boy  gravely  gazing 
at  the  glowing  oven. 
"  jyousqui  sort,  ce  gosse- 
Fa  1"  <for  which  bar- 
barous   lingo    I    take 
leave  to  give    as   an 
equivalent:  Who's  the 
d?>  asked  the  man. 
5-:',  And  the  answer  came : 
"  fa  1—ca,  mats  le  p'tit 
godem,    done!'     <That~  why, 
that's  the  little  "goddam.") 
Le  petit  godem  !...  Such  was  the 
name  under  which  that  young 
innocent  was  known  at  Mesnil- 
le  Roy,  and,  be  it  understood, 


THE  LITTLE  GODEM 

in  all  cordiality  and  benevolence!  Of  a  certainty  not 
one  of  those  excellent  people  had  the  remotest  idea  of 
the  meaning  of  their  "  godem : "  with  them  it  was  only  the 
established  equivalent  for  English. 

The  term  is  a  noun,  not  an  expletive,  which  has  come 
down  through  five  centuries—from  the  days,  in  fact,  of  the 
English  occupation  of  France.  Among  the  written  records 
of  those  stirring  times  we  come  across  many  a  passage  in 
which  a  Duguesclin,  a  Maid  of  Orleans,  or  a  Dunois  is 
heard  to  mention  hatefully  " les  godems,"  or  " les  godons 
d'Angleterre."  Now,  all  that  fertile  country  of  the  Vexin, 
the  Ile-de-France  and  the  Beauce,  of  which  the  fat  farm 
land  of  my  old  pere  Pelletier  was  so  fair  a  sample,  was 
obstinately  fought  for  by  the  English  for  the  best  part  of  a 
century.  Mantes-lajolie— now  mainly  famed  for  its  river 
terraces,  its  sweet  water  grapes  and  its  savoury  matelottes 
or  eel  stews— was  once  a  fortified  place  of  note,  taken  and 
retaken  by  French  and  English  more  than  once/  but 
finally  captured  <in  1418)  by  the  noble  Talbot,  Earl  of 
Shrewsbury,  the  Achilles  of  England,  as  the  French 
themselves  dubbed  him,  and  firmly  held  by  the  "  godems  " 
for  more  than  thirty  years.  To  have  heard  that  mis- 
pleasing  word  used  dispassionately,  merely  as  a 
substantive,  is  indeed  a  link  with  the  past. 
Strange  paths  of  the  musing  thought,  winding  from 
Wisteria  Sinensis  to  the  days  of  our  conquering  English 
archer ! 


I  spoke  of  these  childhood  memories  as  of  oddly  clear 
pictures  emerging  here  and  there  out  of  grey  mists  of 

53 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

oblivion.  Another  now  detaches  itself  in  the  same  way 
from  the  clouds  of  the  very  distant  past. 
It  belongs  to  the  following  summer.  A  perfume  of 
Glycine  still  lingers  about  it,  no  doubt/  for  there  again, 
upon  the  stone  and  through  the  curvetting  iron-work 
balconies  of  the  fair  Louis  XV  house  overlooking  the  park 
of  St.  Cloud,  pale  silvery  green 
leafage,  with  here  and  there  a 
cluster  of  faint  blue,  spreads  in  a 
well-regulated  display— widely 
different,  though,  from  the  foam- 
ing profusion  of  the  Mesnil.  But 
!. \fthe  impression  more  specially 
associated  with  those  happy  St. 
Cloud  days  is  the  incense  of 
the  Sweet  Briar. 

What  has  happened— I  pause  and 
ask  indignantly— to  the  Sweet- 
Briar  of  the  world?  Whither 
has  the  celestial,  the  entrancing 
scent  of  the  true  Eglantine 
vanished?  Our  twentieth  cen- 
tury Briar  is  still— there  is  no 
gainsaying  it— a  delicious  being, 
in  its  ephemeral  exquisiteness  of 
flower  and  its  pleasant,  if  but 
slightly  more  lasting,  leafy  odour. 
But  never,  in  subsequent  life, 

have  I  captured  again  the  sudden  delight  first  brought  to 
my  childish  nostrils  by  a  puff  of  breeze  that  had  passed  over 
some  hidden  clump  of  sweet  Eglantine.  This  first  impression 
54 


SWEET  EGLANTINE 

is  connected  with  certain  grassy  alleys  piercing  deep  the  grand 
old- world  park,  or  rather  forest,  of  St.  Cloud,  which  were  my 
favourite  playgrounds  in  the  early  sixties  of  the  last  century. 
<There  is  something  distinctly  suitable  to  the  status  of 
Grandpa,  albeit  merely  "brevet"  rank  as  in  my  case,  in 
memorising  thus  about  a  past  century  !> 
I  can  see  the  five-year-old  arrested  short  upon  the  turf,  in 
the  midst  of  the  hot  pursuit  of  a  blue  butterfly,  by  his  first 
whiff  in  life  of  Rosa  Rubiginosa :  so  might  a  setter  halt  and 
stiffen,  having  got  the  wind  of  a  grouse.~The  source  of  the 
fitful  stream  of  fragrance  was  hidden  among 
clumps  of  forbidding  brambles.  Besides, 
there  was  no  following  the  trail :  it  seemed 
ubiquitous.  Like  some  Puck  in  his  most 
tantalising  mood,  it  would  lead  up  and  down, 
up  and  down— luring  now  to  right,  now  to  left, 
now  straight  ahead,  anon  seemed  to  whisk 
past  from  behind,  until,  in  a  kind  of  "  dwam," 
the  child  would  give  up  the  baffled  purpose  and 
pensively  trot  home  by  the  nurse's  side. 
For  days  the  ambrosial  fragrance  dwelt  in 
his  little  turned-up  nose.  It  haunted  the 
sensitive  child-mind  much  as,  later,  in  budding 
manhood,  the  remembrance  of  some  enchant- 
ing face  seen  for  an  instant  and  then  lost 
to  sight.  He  had  at  last  to  confide  his 
hopeless  passion  to  his  mother.  It  smelt 
<he  explained)  like  the  Pomme  Reinette  of 
the  dessert  plates,  but  oh,  so  much,  so  much 
better !  The  reference  to  the  well-known  and 
excellent  variety  of  apple  left  no  doubt  about 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
the  nature  of  the  plant  which  had  exhaled  the  elusive  trails 
of  perfume.    "  Reinette  "  became  the  accepted  name  of  the 
woodland  charmer  and  the  hunt  for  Reinette  bushes  in 
the  more  devious  paths  of  the  wood  a  daily  occupation. 


With  these  expeditions  is  associated  another  first  ac- 
quaintance that  made  a  singularly  strong  impression. 
There  was,  at  the  end  of  one  of  those  heavenly  grassed 
alleys,  a  group  of  brushwood  greenery  from  which  the 
unmistakable  fragrance  flowed  deliciously  across  the  path 
when  the  wind  blew  from  a  certain  direction— I  should  say, 
now,  from  the  west  /  for  the  path  led  to  Garches,  a  place 
which,  some  eight  years  later,  during  the  siege  of  Paris, 
became  notorious  as  the  scene  of  some  very  ferocious 
bayonet  fighting-  Undoubtedly  there  was  a  wealth  of 
the  desirable  "Reinette"  amid  that  underwood.  But,  to 
the  mild  surprise  of  nurse  or  mother,  or  whoever  it  might 
be  who  escorted  the  child  upon  his  daily  constitutional  in 
the  wood,  nothing  could  induce  him  to  draw  that  particular 
cover.  He  developed  an  ingenuity  <or  rather  should  it  be 
called  a  disingenuousness)  for  pushing  investigations  or 
carrying  on  a  game  in  paths  that  gave  this  spot  a  wide 
berth.  Whenever  possible,  even,  he  found  some  specious 
argument  for  avoiding  the  Garches-ward  alley  altogether. 
No  one,  I  believe,  ever  knew  the  reason. 
The  fact  is  that,  hard  thereby,  as  if  standing  sentinel, 
rose  a  company  of  tall,  slender  Aspens— trees  that,  in  a 
small  boy's  estimation,  did  not  behave  as  mere  trees 
should.  He  had  realised  this,  with  a  suddenness  that 
first  made  his  heart  jump,  and  then  rooted  him  on  the 
56 


in 


THE  BLANCHING,  LAUGHING  ASPEN 

spot,  one  day  when,  having  caught  up  his  scent,  he  was 
rushing  with  a  whoop  to  the  capture  of  his  bush.  The 
Aspens,  up  to  that  instant  quite  placid,  palely  green, 
grew  all  at  once  white  with  excitement  and  nodded  their 
heads  to  each  other  /  after  which  came  the  noise  of  their 
leaves/  not  the  -honest  rustle  of  green 
trees,  but  derisive  laughter/  sounds,  too, 
weirdly  human,  ringing  as  though 
mockery  of  the  discomfited  invader. 
Mark  you,  there  is  something  decidedly, 
uncanny  in  the  deportment  of  the  Aspen' 
and  its  gracile,  long-stalked  trembling 
leaves,  the  white  undersides  of  which 
any  puff  of  wind  exposes  simultane- 
ously to  view— turning,  on  the  instant, 
the  whole  of  the  green  to  foaming 
silver.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
the  matter  then.  These  paling  and 
odd  rustling  trees  completely 
overawed  Master  Louis  <Louis 
is  Loki's  grandpa's  baptismal 
name,  now  sunk  into  disuse), 
though,  in  his  budding  masculine 
pride,  he  kept  the  secret  of  his 
abhorrence  very  close  within  his 
own  little  bosom.  t 

On  one  occasion,  however,  when  he  had  had  to  make 
up  his  mind  to  walk  past  the  blanching,  murmuring  group 
unless  he  were  prepared  <which  he  was  not)  to  explain 
the  nature  of  his  objection,  he  asked,  with  a  fair  show 
of  indifference,  what  manner  of  tree  it  was  which  "  made 

57 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

that  funny  noise :  he-he-he-he."  "  One  would  say/'  he 
added  with  elaborate  airiness,  "that  they  make  a  mock 
of  one!" 

When  informed  that  "Tremble"  was  the  name  thereof, 
he  became  sunk  in  fresh  unpleasant  musings,  and  was 
fain  to  look  back,  fascinated,  over  his  shoulder,  each 
time  the  chuckling  called  after  him. 
The  sound  of  the  breeze,  as  it  ruffles  through  the  leaves 
of  "Populus  tremula/'  is  like  nothing  else  in  the  woods. 
I  have  always  retained  my  interest  in  the  "  Tremble "  of 
my  young  days/  and  in  the  course  of  time  it  became 
one  of  delight  instead  of  terror.  I  would  give  a  good 
deal  to  have  one  of  my  own:  one  living  not  far  from 
my  bedroom  window.  It  would  be  good  to  hear  it 
laughing  gently  outside,  when  one  first  woke,  and  to  know 
that  it  was  powdering  itself,  so  to  speak,  under  the 
rays  of  the  rising  sun.  But  there  are  no  Aspens  in  our 
part  of  the  world.  And,  as  for  planting  a  council  of 
these  in  the  hope  of  silvery  rustle  and  light  effects, 
why,  it  is  perhaps  somewhat  too  late  in  the  day!  But 
I  still  seem  to  hear  and  see  them  with  the  ears  and 
eyes  of  that  dawning  spring  of  life  in  the  St.  Cloud  days. 


58 


VII 

POOR  little  old  town  of  St.  Clodoald !    In  later  years 

I  spent  an  afternoon  hunting  up  its  distant  remembrances. 

Alas,  but  it  was  like  looking  at  some  worn-out  engraving, 

some  faded  dun  picture  once  known  in  all  its 

brilliancy. 

Obliterated  was  the  dainty  white  stone  Palace/ 

scene  of  the  revelries  and  the  bright-coloured 

elegancies  of  the  Regent/  favourite 

retreat  of  Marie  Antoinette  /  theatre 

of  the  "  Dix-huit  Brumaire  "  drama  / 

early  home  of  I'Aiglon  !  The  Chateau 

de  St.  Cloud,  the  summer  residence 

of  the  last  Napoleon, 

had  been  /  /  J: 

burned  4-  *- .: .  -*...  <4JU llul 

by   the  ,! 

Prussians^even  as   they 

burned  the  bulk  of   the 

town-in  1870* 

Many  a  time,  when,  not 

so  many  years  ago,  we  could  read 

daily  the  shameless  slander,  the  wilful  calumnies, 

of  the   German   press   on   the   subject   of  the 

"barbarity"  of  our  soldiers   during  the   South 

African  wars,  has  my  mind  flown  back  to  the  picture  of 

charred  and  jagged  ruins  standing  against  the  rise  of  the  hill 

*  This  «zyas  'written  long  before  anyone  here  dreamed  of  the  near  possi- 
bility of  another  German  tua.r. 

59 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

which  once  met  my  eyes  when  I  looked  for  the  quiet,  happy 
prospect  I  had  known. 

The  town,  when  I  last  saw  it,  and  its  ancient  church  had 
been  rebuilt  /  but  the  Palace  was  a  dismal  ruin  /  and  the  park 
seemed  scald  and  deserted.  Gone  also,  worst  luck  of  all, 
the  Lanteme  de  Diogene~tht  quaint  tower  at  the  river-side 
opening  of  the  main  alley,  built  in  the  pleasure-loving  days 
of  Louis'le'Bieri'Aime.  <It  was  called  a  mirador :  I  believe 
a  structure  of  that  kind  is  now  known  as  "gazebo"— 
deplorable  word!)  From  the  top  of  it  a  magnificent 
panorama  of  distant  Paris  could  be  descried. 
The  neighbourhood  of  la  Lanteme  was  the  great  trysting 
place  of  nurses  and  guardsmen,  and  the  playing  ground  of 
children.  On  that  day  of  back-dreaming  exploration,  I  had 
been  looking  forward,  with  a  kind  of  tenderness,  to  gazing 
once  more  on  its  bizarre  shape.  There  is  a  well-known 
ron def  dating  it  would  seem  from  the  Middle  Ages : 

"  La  Tour,  prends  garde— 
La  Tour,  prends  garde— 
De  te  laisser  abattre  !  " 

which  is  sung  by  the  Gallic  infant,  in  a  game  somewhat 
cognate  to  our:  "Here  we  go  round  the  Mulberry 
Bush ! "  It  used  to  be  danced  under  the  shadow  of  this 
tower/  and,  in  a  child's  way,  I  had  always  instinctively 
associated  the  unnamed  stronghold  of  the  ballad  with  this 
peaceful  erection. 

Alas  for  the  dear  old  Tour,  it  was  destined  to  be  laid  low, 
after  all,  in  spite  of  our  eager  warning !  The  terrace  on 
which  it  was  built  was  seized  as  the  emplacement  of  a 
battery  of  heavy  Krupps,  for  the  bombardment  of  the 
60 


THE  OLD  PARK  OF  ST.  CLOUD 

obstinate  capital  yonder  away.  The  Lanteme  de  Diogene, 
in  its  white  stone  and  clear  outline  against  the  trees, 
offered  too  distinct  a  mark  to  the  answering  gunners  to  be 
tolerated.  It  had  to  be  levelled.  It  was  never 
rebuilt,  I  could  find  nothing  appertaining  to  it 
but  the  grass  bordered  slabs  of  its  founda- 
tions. .  .  . 

Lost,  too,  to  me  was  the  particular  alley  re- 
dolent of  the  memory  of  both  Reinette  and 
Tremble;  no  doubt  absorbed  in  some  of  the 
metalled  motor  roads  that  now  traverse  the 
park. 

The  Grande  Cascade,  however,  which  Lepautre, 
by  order  of  Louis  XIV,  devised  for  the 
glorification  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans'  future 
home,  was  still  there.  Its  tiers  of  white  stone 
steps  over  which  the  water,  on  Grandes  Eaux 
days,  used  to  pour  down,  foaming  yet  dis- 
ciplined, in  symmetric  balustered  channels, 
between  ranks  of  allegoric  statues  standing 
like  guards  and  lacqueys  upon  a  royal  stairway— still  de- 
scend, framed  by  huge  umbrageous  elms,  from  the  middle 
height  of  the  hill  to  the  wide  marble  bassin  on  the  river  level. 
How  fully  the  great  garden  designers  of  the  Roy  Soleil 
understood  the  life-giving  virtue  of  moving  waters  in  their 
grandiose  if  freezing  conception  of  the  formal  landscape ! 
Here,  in  the  midst  of  the  nature-made  beauty  of  the  old 
Park— where  there  had  been  forests,  more  or  less  wild,  ever 
since  Gaulish  days— these  architectural  waters  have  a 
startling  effect  /  incongruous  no  doubt,  but  the  artificiality 
of  the  stone-work  has  been  mellowed  by  two  centuries 

61 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

and  more  of  summer  suns  and  winter  frosts,  And  these 
monumental  streams  are  beyond  compare  more  beautiful 
than  their  prototypes  of  Versailles  and  the  copies  erected 
in  other  Continental  residences  in  imitation  of  the  Grand 
Regne  manner.  This  Lepautre  was  a  man  of  fine  power, 
in  the  style  of  his  age.  But  he  had  also  the  servile  fawning 
mind  of  that  age.  Soon  after  the  triumph  of  the  St.  Cloud 
Park,  he  could  find  it  in  him  to  die  in  three  days  of 
jaundiced  envy  because  some  other  design  of  his  had 
been  passed  over  by  the  King's  eye  in  favour  of  one 
by  Mansard !  Yea,  to  die  of  heart-burning,  even  as  that 
greater  man,  Jean  Racine,  who,  some  years  later,  gave  up 
the  ghost  in  despair  over  a  harsh  remark  passed  by  his 
royal  master  in  a  fit  of  temper/  even  as  Vatel,  the 
maitre  d'hotel,  who  fell  upon  his  sword,  and  put  an 
end  to  a  life  dishonoured  by  the  failure  of  the  fish  at  the 
celebrated  Chantilly  banquet ! 

Yes,  the  old  cascade,  at  least,  was  still  there,  that  once 
had  filled  the  five-year-old's  imagination  with  a  sense  of 
the  supreme  in  earthly  grandeur.  The  Jet  Geant,  also/ 
that  spouting  jet  that  reaches  a  height  of  ...  but  no, 
why  cramp  the  stupendous  into  figures?  Figures  are 
finite  things.  The  shaft  of  hissing  water,  in  those  days 
of  confident  wondering,  reached  the  limit  of  the  con- 
ceivable before  it  fell  down  again,  in  its  thundering 
showers,  through  the  iridescent  bow,  the  arc-en-cre/, 
that  could  always  be  looked  for  when  the  sun  shone 
on  it  at  the  sinking  hour.  But,  alas,  for  the  middle- 
aged  visitor  who  sought  for  a  taste  again,  however 
transient,  of  the  noisy  joyousness,  the  brilliance,  the 
colour,  locked  up  in  memory's  casket!  .  .  .  The  cidevant 
62 


FIRELIGHT  PICTURES 

royal  park— now  Propriete  Nationale,  and  duly  stamped, 
wherever  room  can  be  found  for  itf  with  the  priggish  and 
lying  motto :  Liberte,  Egalite,  Fratemite  was  dull  and  drab 
and  neglected :  silent  and  morose.  The  Grand  Monarques 
extravagances  in  stone  seemed  positively  shamefaced.  The 
whole  place— this  artificial  park  within  the  ancient  woods- 
had  the  melancholy  of  things  outworn  and  disowned. 

Yet  here,  in  my  armchair  by  the  firelight,  up  on  the  side 
of  our  dear  Surrey  hill,  I  can  still  picture 
sharply  to  myself  the  summer  life  of  St.  Cloud 
as  it  was  in  the  careless  precarious  days 
of  the  Second  Empire. 
The  Empress  Eugenie,  then  a  young  wife, 
and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women  of 
Europe,  lived  at  the  Chateau.  And  the 
Park,  though  thrown  open  to  the  people,  was 
kept  trim  with  jealous  care. 
Roads  generously  sanded,  [.. 
lawns  watered  and  mown  -.N  ( \ 
with  systematic  care,  par-  "V/j 
terres  ever  bright  with 
flowers,  all  was  marvel-  " 
lously  different  then  from 
the  present  day  shabbiness. 
I  seem  to  see  again,  even  with 
almost  a  lifetime's  experience  in- 
tervening, the  vivid  scene  impressed  on 
the  observant  and  eager  eyes  of  the  child. 
The  gay-hued  crowds  of  ladies  in  all  the  then  elegance  of 
scuttle  bonnets  and  crinolines  /  the  bevies  of  children,  of  every 

63 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

class,  but  all  joyous  and  noisy/  the  bands  of  marching 
youths,  buzzing  the  popular  airs  of  the  year  on  the 
euphonious  Mirliton  ;  the  siege  of  every  "  kiosk "  where 
the  wafers  hot  from  the  mould,  or  the  cool  lemonade, 
were  dispensed  /  the  swans,  stately  but  voracious,  being 
fed  upon  the  great  pond  ,•  the  bright  coloured  beribboned 
nourrices  squatting  with  the  nurslings  on  the  circular  benches 
within  sound  of  the  musique  militaire,  and  the  inevitable  giant 
bearded  sapeur  in  flirtatious  attendance/  the  quite  too 
beautiful  officers  with  tight  waists,  waxed  moustaches  and 
swaying  gold  epaulets— what  not  ? 

Before  the  great  gates,  solemnly  walking  to  and  fro,  or 
standing  picturesquely  sentinel,  there  never  wanted  a  party 
of  veteran  grenadiers  in  their  towering  brass-fronted  bear- 
skins and  white  cross-belts  to  produce  the  desired  "  Old 
Guard "  effect.  Or  it  might  be  heavy-moustached 
troopers,  Guides,  with  sweeping  plumes  over  the  huge 
colback ;  with  pelisses  of  fur  and  eagle-embroidered 
sabretaches,  copying,  on  their  side,  the  grim  appearance  of 
Napoleon's  <the  real  one's)  body  guard. 
The  whole  place,  indeed,  was  pervaded  with  the  "  immense  " 
uniforms  of  those  pretorians:  those  long  service  profes- 
sional soldiers  for  whose  showy  maintenance  the  Imperial 
Government  stinted  an  otherwise  dwindling  national  army 
—disastrous  army,  destined,  despite  its  gallantry,  to  be 
so  soon  decimated,  swept  away,  by  the  legions  of  das 
Volk  in  Woffen  wielded  with  the  ruthless  mastery  of 
German  generalship ! 

For  such  as  have  only  known  France  since  the  strictly 
utilitarian  days  that  followed  the  great  debacle;  days 
when  the  notion  that  any  kind  of  smartness  is  incompatible 
64 


FORGOTTEN  BRILLIANCIES 

with  "republican  efficiency  seems  to  have  become  an 
obsession "  it  is  difficult  to  realize  the  gilded  magnificence 
of  the  Garde  Imperiale.  Still  less,  perhaps,  in  these  anti- 
militarist  times,  the  idolatry  of  the  people  for  its  beaux 
militaires.  Of  a  truth,  on  a  sunny  day,  they  brightened 
the  park  walks  almost  as  much  as  the  Geraniums  in  the 
great  stone  urns,  or  the  forbidden  golden  fruit  in  the  orange 
tubs! 

The  authorities  were  sedulous,  especially  in  such  places  as 
St.  Cloud,  to  keep  the  pleasant  side— the  pride,  the  pomp 
and  circumstance—of  soldiering  in  evidence.  The  happy 
little  town  was  awakened  in  the  morning,  was  apprised  of 
noon  and  again  of  sundown,  by  the  incredibly  joyous  "son- 
neries  "  of  the  Landers  de  I'lmperat rice,  whose  trumpeters 
specially  gathered  from  far  and  wide,  could  sound  all 
tuckets  and  points  of  war  in  an  admirable  harmony  of  high 
overtones  blended  with  the  noble,  grave  sounds  of  the 
ordinary  calls.  .  .  .  Entrancing  music  to  the  little  boy,  in  the 
glycine-clad  house  of  the  rue  du  Chateau,  who  would  start 
awake,  hearken,  and  then  turn  round  and  go  to  sleep 
again  in  great  content.  The  drums  of  the  garde  montante, 
headed  by  the  olympian  tambourmajor,  sedulously  tossing 
and  twirling  his  cane,  daily  rattled  the  window  panes  as  in 
great  pomp  it  ascended  the  hill,  palace-wards.  It  never 
failed  to  draw  the  same  crowd  to  the  same  doorsteps. 
Estaffettes  clattered  hourly  along  the  narrow  paved  streets, 
on  their  way  to  and  from  Paris  /  glittering,  clinking,  full 
of  official  importance,  and  with  an  eagerness  no  doubt 
wholly  uncalled  for  by  any  existing  necessity. 

All  that  colour  and  bustle  and  pleasant  make-believe  of 
strength  and  "  tradition/'  was  typical  of  all  one  has  since 

e  65 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

learned  to  associate  with  that  Empire  on  the  high  road  to 
ruin.  But  it  had  its  attractive  side  for  those  who  had  not 
found  it  out  /  and,  seen  through  the  prism  of  distance,  a 
picturesqueness  that  modern  France,  so  systematically 
democratized,  is  scarce  like  to  know  again. 


66 


VIII 

THE  ways  of  our  musings  are  as  devious,  as  unexpected, 
as  those  of  a  general  conversation :  there  is  no  presiding 
spirit  to  keep  us  to  a  standing  topic !  This 
topic,  with  us,  should  be  "  Our  Sentimental 
Garden/'  And  our  tattle  should,  really, 
be  connected,  even  if  but  distantly;  with 
plants  or  scenery/  with  country  life  and 
friends  <or  foes)/  with  emotions  or  remi- 
niscences plausibly  evoked  by  the  flowed 
side  of  life.  Happily  it  is  pleasant  enough 
to  be  brought  back  to  the  right 
theme;  as  I  am  just  now  by  a 
thought  of  the  head-line. 
To  one  who  has  taken  somewhat 
late  in  the  day  to  a  life  in  the  country, 
most  of  its  interests  seem  to  be  a  re- 
discovery of  early,  simple,  and  inti-  ^ 
mate  delights  /  to  be  connected  with  '&* 
impressions  long  forgotten. 
There  is  an  episode  in  the  biography 
of  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau  which, 
if  I  remember  aright,  bears  upon  this 
point.  I  have  not  got  the  Confessions 
by  me— it  is,  no  doubt,  in  that  cyni- 
cal autobiography  that  the  anecdote 
is  recorded — nor,  indeed,  any  other  . 
work  of  that  exceedingly  anti- 
pathetic writer.  <This  is  the  usual  course:  the  books 
I  require  for  reference  when  in  the  country  happen  oftener 

67 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
than  not  to  be  on  my  London  bookshelves  /  and  mutatis 
mutandis,  vice  versa  I  >    The   precise  wording  cannot  in 
consequence  be  given  here.    But  it  is  a  small  matter/  the 
story  is  to  this  effect : 

In  his  young  and  singularly  impressionable  days,  Jean- 
Jacques  was  taking  a  country  walk  with  one  very  near  to 
his  heart.  At  a  certain  spot  of  the  garden,  or  the  wood, 
in  which  he  was  tasting  the  subtle  joys  of  solitude  a 
deux,  the  lady  suddenly  exclaimed : 
"  See,  yonder  is  a  pervenche  !  " 

"  Indeed/7  returned  the  youth,  little  intent  then,  upon  the 
beauties  of  the  outer  world,  and  gazed  absently  upon  the 
tender  blue  peeping  out  of  the  tender  green.  "  So,  that  is 
a  periwinkle  1 "  And  he  resumed  the  thread  of  his  inter- 
rupted discourse. 

But,  later— much  later  on,  in  twilight  days  of  his  life— some 
one  happened  again  to  say  in  his  hearing : 
"See~a  Periwinkle !" 

And  Rousseau,  now  old  Jean-Jacques,  amazed  the  com- 
pany by  an  almost  incredible  exhibition  of  sensibility. 
"  Une    pervenche  !       Where— where  ? "    he    called    out, 
throwing  himself  down  on  his  knees  to  look  for  the  flower, 
with  eyes  bathed  in  tears. 

If  this  is  not  quite  the  exact  tale,  it  matters,  as  I  said  above, 
very  little.  It  is  the  story,  in  its  essence.  The  age  of 
sensibility  <praise  be  to  our  fate  !>  is  no  longer  with  us  ,• 
but  there  is  something  permanently  true  in  the  picture  it 
sets  forth.  To  the  philosophe  of  mature  years  the  mere 
word  pervenche  suddenly  recalled,  in  a  poignantly  intimate 
manner,  the  first  love  of  his  spring-time.  Veteris  vestigia 
flammae  ! 
68 


REDISCOVERED  DELIGHTS 

And  we  are  not  to  wonder  that  the  echo  from  a  world  irre- 
mediably lost  should  have  affected  the  morose,  self-centred 
reprobate  in  an  uncontrollable  manner.  I  venture  to  think 
that,  with  the  least  sentimental  of  us,  the  sudden 
rediscovery,  of  some  long  forgotten  youthful  impression 
can  hardly  fail  to  evoke,  however  transiently,  a  certain 
dreamy  emotion :  half  pleasure,  half  melancholy. 
Now,  in  the  case  of  the  Master  of  the  House—and  he 
is  thankful  to  realize  it—early  memories  of  delight  in 
flowers  and  such  things  are  associated,  not  with  the 
troublous  times  of  young  manhood's  protean  heart  affairs, 
not  with  the  Sturm  und  Drang  days  of  the  dawning 
moustache,  but  rather  with  the  quaintly  fanciful  inner  life 
of  boyhood.  They  come  back  borne  upon  the  colours 
and  odours  of  such  early  friends  as  Lilac  and  Acacia/ 
common  Wallflower— Giroflee,  our  Gillyflower/ 
wild  Violet  and  Primrose^a//rce  "Coucou" ; 
Hollyhock  or  rather  Rose-tremiere  ;  Lilyof-the-^ 
Valley/  Muguet.  ...  It  is  the  old  French  ^ 
name  that  most  readily  slips  from  my  pen. 
Owing  perhaps  to  a  childhood  spent  almost 
wholly  in  France,  and  to  the  completeness  of  the 
break  that  necessarily  ensued  when  the  English 
born  but  French  nurtured  boy  was  at  last  allowed 
back  to  his  own  and  proper  land,  all  these  memories 
seem  to  belong  to  a  world  utterly  apart— to  some- 
thing rather  fantastic,  unconnected  with  later  life 
and  interests.  Moreover,  being  of  childhood  and 
of  a  time  when  the  world  seemed  uniformly  kind,  \,. 
they  retain  an  allurement  all  their  own.  One  \  I 
pleasant  recollection  of  those  far-off  days  does  not  *  % 

69 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

hook  on  to  others,  bitter,  regretful,  or  let  it  be  even  merely 

ruffling  .  .  .  inevitable  chain  of  responsible  experiences ! 

Our  early  memories  are  like  works  of  art :  they  have 
a  way  of  perpetuating  in  beauty  things  that  perhaps  were 
not  really  beautiful  in  themselves,  About  them  there  is 
an  unconscious  selection  which,  having  been  made  by 
a  mind  still  essentially  serene,  has  contrived  a  subtle 
harmony  of  all  the  elements.  Upon  the  pictures  of  its 
store,  a  child's  memory  lays  an  emphasis  strangely 
different  to  that  which  the  critical  powers  of  later  growth 
would  set.  And  it  is  this  quaint  insistence  on  certain 
"  odd  corners  of  things  "  which  <among  other  reasons)  makes 
them  so  dearly  personal  and  private  to  the  older  mind. 
In  my  own  case,  as  I  have  said,  they  belong  to  a  world 
still  more  remote  than  the  childhood  of  most  men  of 
"  Grandpa  "  status— a  world  which  has  not  even  the  link 
of  language  to  connect  it  with  the  present ! 
Paradoxically,  this  is  perhaps  the  reason  why  I  take  so 
much  pleasure  in  finding  these  happy-hued  and  odorous 
things  now  rising,  and  living  under  their  right  English 
names,  in  a  garden  of  my  own.  To  the  other  denizens  of 
Villino  Loki  they  are  part  of  the  excellent  general  company 
foregathering  in  our  garden :  but  to  me  they  are  in  many 
ways  my  intimates.  We  seem  "to  have  known  things 
together  "  /  things  doubtless  of  no  importance,  but  pleasant 
to  recall  in  casual  intercourse. 


70 


IX 


THE  Lilac  and  Acacia,  for  instance,  were  the 
flower-bearers   of  the  tree-planted  playground 
of  that  jocund  old  school  where  I  received  the 
first    rudiments   of  education:  the   Institution 
Delescluze,  then  situate  in  a  kind  of  backwater 
of  the  faubourg  St.  Honore  at  the  angle  facing 
the  Palais  de  I'Elysee.    It  has,  alas  1  long  since 
been  swept  away  to  make  room  for  modern 
mansions.    This  ancient  Institution,  or  preparatory 
school,  would  seem  to  have  dated  from  the  distant 
days,  early  Louis  XV  probably,  when  the  north 
side  of  the  then  lengthening  noble  faubourg  must 
still  have  been  occupied  by  meadows  and  orchards. 


By  the  way,  it  has  never  occurred  to  me  before  to 
look  up  that  little  topographical  matter  authorita* 
tively.  I  do  so  now.  I  have  here  a  copy  of  a  wonderful 
work,  the  "perspective'"  map  of  Paris  as  it  stood 
in  the  'thirties,  of  the  eighteenth  century.  It  is  called 
the  Plan  de  Turgot,  having  been  surveyed,  and 
engraved,  in  lavishly  decorative  style, 
by  order  of  Louis'le-Bien-Aime,  under 
the  care  of  the  celebrated  Prevost 
des  Marchands.  The  book  is  quite 
the  most  fascinating  of  its  kind  I  know— and  I 
think  I  have  handled  as  goodly  a  number  of 
such  works  as  any  man  alive.  <The  nearest 
approach  to  it,  in  point  of  what  one  may 

71 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

call  picturesque  perspicuity,  is  the  wonderful  bird's-eye 
view  of  Edinburgh  set  down  by  James  Gordon  of  Rothie- 
may,  and  engraved  at  Amsterdam  by  F.  de  Wit,  about 
a  century  earlier.)  This  plan  of  Turgot  is  an  elaborate 
affair  indeed^an  atlas  of  twenty  large  sheets,  showing 
practically  every  individual  house  of  any  importance. 
Would  we  had  such  a  work  in  existence  dealing  with 
Georgian  London ! 

Well,  to  investigate.  .  .  .  Aye,  here  are  the  orchards  and 
market  gardens,  beginning  at  the  very  back  of  a  narrow 
line  of  houses,  covering  all  the  ground  of  what  nowadays 
is  a  close  network  of  stone-fronted  streets !  Here  stands 
the  Hotel  d'Evreux,  the  last,  moving  westward,  of  that 
array  of  lordly  mansions :  the  Hotels  de  Montbazon,  de 
Guebrian,  de  Charost,  de  Duras.  ...  A  few  of  these 
patrician  dwellings,  each  with  their  own  formal  gardens 
stretching  southwards  to  the  Champs  Elysees,  have  re- 
tained to  our  own  times  their  dignity  unimpaired.  But 
where  are  now  scattered  most  of  these  grand  French 
family  names,  since  the  tornado  of  the  great  Revolution  ? 
But,  to  our  map.  .  .  .  yes,  this  Hotel  d'Evreux— whilom 
appanage  of  Madame  de  Pompadour,  now  the  aforesaid 
Palais  de  1'Elysee  /  residence,  in  due  rotation,  of  the  swift- 
changing  presidents  of  the  Republics  here  under  my  finger. 
And  its  position  unquestionably  fixes,  some  two  hundred 
yards  westward,  that  of  the  now  vanished  Institution 
Delescluze,  so  interesting  to  me.  And  here  spread  them- 
selves the  orchards,  of  which  the  existence  a  moment  ago 
was,  after  all,  only  a  matter  of  surmise ! 
My  discovery  adds  particularity  now  to  the  remembrance 
of  that  mellow  place.  .  .  .  A  goodly  number  of  antiquated 


PLUM-TREE  GUM 

fruit  trees  were  scattered  about  the  com  de  recreation.  1 
can  now  carve  it,  in  fancy,  out  of  the  cultivated  land  shown 
by  the  engraver  in  the  most  engaging  conventional  manner, 
at  the  back  of  the  northern  street  front— an  acre  or  so. 
Perhaps  a  little  more  /  likelier  still,  a  little  less :  recollec- 
tions of  this  kind  have  a  knack  of  magnifying  affairs.  It 
is  bounded  by  grey  walls,  tall  and  thick,  but  distinctly 
decrepit.  The  trees  were,  of  course,  long  past  bearing, 
through  age  and  neglect  /  but  they  were  pleasant  company, 
whether  snow-laden,  or  in  summer  affording  their  scanty 
shade.  Plum  trees  they  were,  I  should  say.  At  any  rate 
the  rough  bark  of  their  boles  distilled  a  kind  of  brown  gum 
which  was  in  great  demand  among  us  small  boys  for  imme- 
diate consumption1/  and  sedulously  scooped  out,  as  soon 
as  discovered,  with  the  help  of  the  stump  end  of  a  steel- 
pen  nib. 

Interspersed  among  these  remnants  of  the  forgotten  orchard 
were  the  odd  groups  of  Lilacs  and  Acacias  previously 
mentioned.  The  latter,  the  Acacias,  were  tall  and  above 
interference.  But  strict  were  the  standing  orders  touching 
the  bloom  of  the  Lilac,  and  dire  the  prospect  of  pensum 
or  piquet  to  the  youthful  scholar  who  should  dare  to  pluck 
the  fragrant  bunches ! 

Thus  came  the  Lilac  to  assume  a  character  at  once  sacred 
—or,  at  least,  "  taboo  "~ and  at  the  same  time  perennially 
tantalizing.  It  was  long  before  the  realization  dawned  that 
Lilas  were  not  the  rare  and  precious  blossoms  that  so 
uncompromising  a  prohibition  appeared  to  proclaim.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  the  Lilas,  Blanc  ou  Rose,  is  one  of  the 
commonest  of  spring  objects  in  France.  Almost  might  it 
in  its  popularity  be  regarded  as  the  national  emblem  of  the 

73 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

renouveau,  much  as  with  us  the  pallid,  delicate  Primrose 
is  held  to  herald  the  last  of  wintry  days. 
The  old  French  name  for  the  latter  is  Pn'mero/e,  sug- 
gestive by  its  etymological  connection  with  "prime/'  of  the 
youth  of  the  year.  We  have  made  of  it  Primrose,  through 
the  usual  process  of  popular  phonetic  adaptation,  which 
ever  tends  to  make  a  word  sound  like  something  already 
familiar.  So  that  the  old  Pnmero/e~meaning  simply  an 
early  floweret,  primula—has  become  with  us  "the  early 
rose"!  The  French  dubbed  it  Primevere  a  learned 
equivalent  for  the  Coucou  of  the  rustic  tongue,  to 
symbolize  the  advent  of  vernal  days. 
The  name  brings  at  once  to  mind  the  well-known  yearning 
lines : 

"  0  Primavera,  gioventu  dell*  anno  ! 

0  gioventu,  primavera  della  vita  !  " 

In  France,  however,  the  accepted  harbinger  of  les  beaux 
jours,  is  not  the 

"  Pale  cowslip,  fit  for  maiden's  early  bier/7 

not  the  faint  Primula  but  emphatically  the  Lilac— the  Syringa 
Vulgaris/  the  joyous  fleur  des  humbles,  as  contrasted  to 
the  noble  Rose. 

"  Oh,  gai !  vive  la  rose, 
La  rose  .  .  .  et  les  lilas ! " 

runs  the  refrain  of  olden  days. 

During  the  last  century  or  two  it  has  grown  as  common, 

almost,  around  villages   as  the  hawthorn,  the  Aulepine 

74 


LAVLOCKS-LILAS  BLANC 

itself.  But  it  is  perhaps  best  appreciated  in  the  towns. 
While  the  tender  purple  bloom  lasts,  there  is  scarce  too 
modest  a  working  home's  window-sill  or  mantelpiece  for 
the  display  of  a  branche  de  Lilas  stuck  in  the  gullet  of  a 
water-bottle.  And  your  gay-hearted  grisette  or  midinette, 
early  afoot  in  the  streets,  will  always  spend  her  first  sou 
of  the  day  on  a  sprig  of  the  sweet-breathing  rosy  cluster. 
One  may  learn,  whilst  intent  upon  other  matters,  many 
unsuspected  things  about  objects  even  as  familiar  as 
the  common  "Laylock,"  <A  collection  of  old  letters  of 
Georgian  and  very  early  Victorian  days,  with  which  we 
have  had  much  to  do  at  one  time,  show  a  preference  for 
this  phonetic  rendering  of  the  name.)  Thus  it  appears 
that  a  valuable  febrifuge  "  principle  "  is  obtainable  from  its 
fruit/  that  its  wood,  veined  in  pleasing  colours  and  very 
fine-grained,  is  in  high  request  for  delicate  articles  of 
turnery  and  in  particular  for  inlaying/  that  a  perfumed 
essence  is  sometimes  distilled  from  it  that  is  almost  indis- 
tinguishable from  Rhodes  Balsam~and  so  forth. 
Those,  however,  are  not  the  points  of  interest  which  have 
made  it  imperative  to  have  a  plant  or  two  of  "  Laylocks  " 
in  our  Sentimental  Garden.  <They  do  fairly  well,  be  it 
said,  in  their  own  specially  sheltered,  suntrap  corner  of 
the  ground.)  No,  there  is  in  life  an  ever-growing  motive-- 
old sake's  sake.  Syringa  Persica  may  mean  much  to  the 
operative  gardener,  but  it  can  never  mean  Lilas  blanc  *  .  , 
Lilas  rose  ! 


75 


AS  for  the  Acacias,  in  that  queer  old  courtyard— distinctly 
exotic  creatures,  aristocrats  in  the  company  of  those  pal- 
pable sons  of  the  soil,  the  caducous  orchard  trees—I  still 
wonder  how  they  ever  came  there.  Their  role  in  the  life 
of  the  small-boy  school  seems  to  have  been  that  of  a 
butt  for  cockshies,  and  thus  passively  to  foster  a  notable 
precision  in  the  use  of  those  small  river  pebbles  with  which 
the  playground  was  covered.  A  game,  deeply  favoured 
by  the  young  scholars  <but  not  recognized  by  the  authori- 
ties) when  Acacias  were  "  in,"  consisted  in  the  bringing 
down  of  some  selected  bunch  of  fragrant,  creamy  flowers 
from  its  lofty  station  with  the  minimum  number  of  pebbles. 
The  feat  was  the  subject  of  wager,  the  stakes  stated  and 
paid  in  steel  nibs.  Nibs— in  the  tongue  of  the  aborigines, 
Aecs-Je-p/ume— were  accepted  as  currency  and  legal  tender. 
It  would  be  truly  interesting  to  find  out  how  this  par- 
ticular token  of  exchange  came  to  be  established  among 
the  youthful  communities  of  French  elementary  schools. 
Be  it  as  it  may,  the  convention  was  hallowed  by  tradition 
"  whereof  the  memory  of  boy  ran  not  to  the  contrary/' 
When,  however,  the  pale  yellow,  incense-smelling,  honey- 
tasting  racemes  were  "  out,"  the  devoted  Acacia  became 
the  object  of  other,  slightly  different,  balistic  attentions. 
The  boys,  be  it  stated,  were  regularly  released  from  the 
durance  of  bench  and  desk  every  hour  for  some  ten 
minutes  <a  commendable  system  with  seven  to  ten  year- 
olds)  during  which  the  courtyard  became  clamorous  as 
any  aviary.  During  these  short  intervals  of  recreation, 
too  short  to  allow  of  any  settled  games,  a  favourite 
76 


GARLANDS  AND  ACACIAS 

occupation  was  the  adorning  of  the  inaccessible  branches 
with  long  streamers  of  coloured  paper,  previously  manu- 
factured at  home— guirlandes  by  name.  These  guirlandes, 
some  twenty  or  thirty  feet  long,  were  wound  with  sedulous 
care  round  a  suitable  stone,  leaving  a  small  length  as 
trailer  /  the  apparatus  was  then  cast  up  in  a  parabola  over 
the  tree-top.  If  the  indirect  fire  was  successful  the  trailer 
caught  in  the  leafage,  unrolling  the  remainder  and  releasing 
the  ballasting  stone.  The  most  successful  shot  was,  of 
course,  that  which  left  the  streamer  properly  entangled  on 
the  topmost  boughs.  Each  boy  had  his  chosen  and 
declared  colour,  or  mixture  of  colours  /  and  the  trophy 
remained,  flaunting  his  achievement  "  in  its  own  tincts  " 
as  long  as  wind  or  rain  permitted.  It  afforded  the  small 
breast  a  distinct  satisfaction  when,  reaching  the  school  of 
a  morning,  the  boy  could  see  his  pennant  still  flying  in  the 
breeze.  .  .  . 

Such  is  the  strength  of  the  association  of  ideas  that  I  never 
could  come  upon  a  roadside  plantation  of  Acacias  in  the 
hot  plains  of  Hungary~where  the  tree  is  used  as  commonly 
as  in  France  the  Poplar,  that  inevitable  feature  of  the  great 
highways— without  adorning  it  in  imagination  with  the 
multi-coloured  guirlandes  of  my  first  school. 


If  there  was  no  reasonable  accounting  for  the  presence  of 
Acacias  at  the  Institution  Delescluze,  the  great  Poplar, 
on  the  other  hand,  that  raised  its  height  in  the  very  centre 
of  the  cour,  had  a  well-authenticated  history.  A  relic 
of  Revolution  days,  it  was  then  in  its  eighth  decade,  in  the 
strength  of  its  age  ,•  having  been  planted,  at  the  same  time 

77 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

as  hundreds  of  others,  as  a  Tree  of  Liberty—Poputus, 
emblematic  of  sans-culotte  ascendancy—at  the  time  when 
the  royal  Bastille,  emblem  of  another  form  of  tyranny,  was 
laid  low. 

For  some  cryptic  reason,  by  the  way,  the  democratic 
Poplar,  which  had  subsisted  through  many  changes  of 
regime,  and  had  become  undoubtedly  too  ornamental  a 
mark  of  antiquity  to  be  destroyed,  was  never  honoured  by 
the  flights  of  our  banderoles.  Perhaps  it  was  a  result  of 
political  prejudice,  which  in  France  characteristically 
affects  the  views  even  of  scholars  at  the  hornbook  stage  of 
life.  Or  perhaps  it  was  that  the  old  Peuplier  was  the 
site  of  the  disciplinary  punishment  known  as  piquet—the 
playground  equivalent  of  our  nursery  "corner/7 


Poplar  and  gummy  Plum-trees,  Lilac  and  Acacias,  court- 
yard and  indeed  the  whole  Institution,  had  already  dis- 
appeared when  I  bethought  myself,  for  the  first  time  after 
so  many  years  of  oblivion,  to  go  and  gaze  upon  the  scene 
once  more.  It  was  quite  in  middle  life.  I  had  lately  been 
reading  that  sad  and  strangely  affecting  work,  "Peter 
Ibbetson,"  the  first,  and  to  my  mind  by  far  the  best,  of  the 
three  novels  written  by  Georges  du  Maurier  in  the  late 
autumn  of  his  days.  By  the  thousands  who  for  so  many 
years  had,  week  after  week,  enjoyed  the  delicate  humour 
and  pencilling  of  the  great  Punch  artist,  the  book  was 
received  with  a  favour  that  paved  the  way  for  the  greater 
popular  success  of  "  Trilby/7  But  I  doubt  whether  it  ever 
appealed  to  any  denizen  of  our  planet  as  intimately  as  to 
the  Master  of  the  House. 
78 


GLAMOUR  OF  YORE 

Those  who  have  read  the  curiously  original  novel  which, 
like  so  many  first  attempts  at  fiction,  is  autobiographical 
—autobiographical  as  to  feelings,  if  not  necessarily  as  to 
facts— may  remember  his  description  of  the  Rnglish  boy's 
early  "  French  days  / "  and,  later  on,  of  the  mature  man's 
poignant  impressions  on  revisiting  the  old  playground  of 
his  life.  Now,  there  were  so  many  points  of  resemblance 
between  the  surroundings  of  Du  Maurier's  hero's  child- 
hood and  my  own/  so  many  allusions  to  the  kind  of 
things  and  the  kind  of  people  I  had  once  been  familiar 
with  but,  as  time  flowed  on,  had  dismissed  from  mind  as 
removed  from  real  existence  and  new  workaday  points  of 
view /  they  were  presented,  moreover,  in  so  sympathetic  a 
manner,  that  one  need  hardly  wonder  at  the  sudden  resolve 
that  rose  within  me,  to  go  and  look  up  the  old  place  again. 
Such  a  desire,  when  it  comes,  has  something  of  the  twist 
of  hunger  about  it—it  is  we  fringale,  to  use  a  word  for 
which,  oddly  enough,  we  have  no  counterpart.  But,  alas ! 
delight  in  scenes  of  the  beau  temps  jadis  is  not  to  be 
recaptured !  It  may  but  be  espied  in  fitful,  elusive  glimpses. 
The  world  has  moved  on  and  the  genius  loci  has  fled. 
Have  you  ever  found  out  that  the  return,  after  many 
years,  to  a  place  oft  dreamed  of  until  then  and  with  never- 
failing  tenderness,  besides  leaving  you  blankly  unsatisfied, 
seems  to  have  killed  the  glamour,  to  have  broken  the  magic 
spell  of  memory  ?  The  dream  is  dispelled.  It  will  hence- 
forth nevermore  haunt  your  pillow,  you  have  seen  the 
phantom  of  the  past  with  the  eyes  of  nowadays/  the 
new  picture  has  replaced  that  of  the  dream— for  ever. 
Well,  la  boite  Delescluze~as  we  irreverent  youngsters 
called  that  respectable  institution— unlike  those  other 

79 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

places,  St.  Cloud,  for  instance,  which  were  fated  to  evoke 
but  a  melancholy  disappointment,  could  not  be  beheld 
again  with  the  carnal  eye—not  the  least  vestige  of  it. 
And  it  is,  no  doubt,  for  that  reason  that  so  many  memories 
still  come  flitting  back,  smiling  and  clear,  of  that  forgotten 
cradle  of  scholarship. 


80 


XI 

A  GLOWING  log  rolls  down  from  its 
allotted  place  on  the  hearth,  sending  into 
the  room  a  jet  of  wood  smoke,  blue  at 
the  stem,  white  feathering  as  it  spreads 
out/  and  the  pungent  smell  immediately 
revives  a  fresh  set  of  scenes  from  the 
past, 

That  nothing  brings  back  old  memories 
so  suddenly  and  so  vividly  as  perfume 
is  a  commonplace  remark.  But  I  wonder 
whether  the  extraordinary  persistency  of 
a  first  impression,  in  the  case  of  odours 
constantly  met  with,  has  been  so  generally 
noticed.  Perhaps  I  am  peculiar  in  this 
sensitiveness.  Smells,  pleasant,  indifferent, 
or  otherwise,  which  one  is  liable  to  en- 
counter in  the  most  varied  circumstances, 
should,  one  would  think,  cease  in  time  to 
recall  any  particular  period  of  existence. 
For  example,  the  delicious  smell  of  roast- 
ing coffee— an  aroma  not  common  in 
England  — may  well  bring  you  back,  at 
a  jump,  to  some  foreign,  unfamiliar  ex- 
perience of  your  youth— to  that  early 
morning  walk  in  the  little  Flemish  town 
of  which  you  have  forgotten  the  name/ 
where,  as  you  sauntered  down  the  street, 
you  were  greeted  at  nearly  every  doorstep 
by  this  pungent  savour.  The  black  cylin- 
f  '  81 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

drical  family  roaster,  its  berries  rattling  musically  within, 
was  being  carefully  revolved  over  its  bed  of  live  charcoal 
by  the  boy  of  the  house,  or  perhaps  by  the  housewife  her- 
self. The  delicate,  diaphanous  sky-blue  smoke  of  the 
beans,  as  they  reached  the  perfecting  point  of  their  char- 
ring, struck  your  eye  as  gratefully  as  the  fragrance  it  con- 
veyed to  your  nostrils.  No  wonder  that,  after  a  long 
spell,  even  a  distant  whiff  of  that  odour  of  promise  should 
bring  back  a  definite  picture.  But  that  essences  of  such 
everyday  character,  say,  as  petrol  /  or  that  which  accom- 
panies the  peeling  of  an  orange,  should  still  have  the  power 
of  bringing  me  back,  instantly,  to  the  hours  of  my  early 
schooling,  is  in  truth  a  curious  matter. 
In  the  case  of  petrol,  perhaps,  the  connexion  is  less 
extraordinary.  Until  the  age  of  the  motor  was  ushered  in 
^and  that  is  barely  a  score  of  years  ago— the  smell  of 
"  petroleum/'  as  it  was  still  called,  could  come  upon  the 
sense  as  an  odour  out  of  the  usual  run. 
Whenever  I  come  across  it  now,  it  never  fails  to  waft  me 
back  to  the  old  class-room  of  the  Institution,  the  Etude 
No.  3,  where  I  first  made  acquaintance  with  the  possibly 
wholesome  but  not  otherwise  attractive  redolence  of  the 
lampes  a  petrole.  That  was  during  the  short  days  of 
the  year,  when  these  luminaries  were  brought  in  soon  after 
four  o'clock,  and  suspended  over  our  young  heads— a 
ceremony  coinciding  with  the  last  hour  of  c/osse— at  the 
end  of  which  the  assembly  would  be  dispersed  for  the  day: 
the  bigger  boys  walking  back  to  their  neighbouring  homes, 
the  smaller  being  fetched  by  their  bonnes,  or  it  might  be 
the  footman  /  or  yet,  in  unpropitious  weather,  by  anxious 
parents  in  carriage  or  fiacre. 
82 


NOSTRIL  MEMORIES 
Quaint  place,  that  Institution—when 
one  looks  back  on  it  from  this  far 
end  of  the  road !  I  think  I  can  breathe 
its  peculiar  atmosphere  this  instant 
—and  see  the  queer,  long,  low  room, 
with  the  beams  across  the  ceiling/ 
the  whitewashed  walls,  covered  with 
highly  coloured  elementary  maps  and 
graphic    pictures    of    the    metrical 
system  applied  to  measures  lineal 
and  cubical,  solid  and  liquid,  and  to 
the  national  coinage.  . .  .  There  they 
are:   the  six  rows  of  benches  and 
desks,    each    with    its    half-dozen 
youngsters,  some  elaborately  drawing 
a  steel  nib,  in  strokes  alternately 
swelling  and  slender,  over  a  copybook  of  bafflingly  soft 
paper,  productive  of  periodical  splutters  /  others  reading 
<in  earnest  or  in  pretence)  a  chapter  of  Epitome  ;  others, 
again,  committing,  with  dumb   mouthing,  a  fable  of  La 
Fontaine  to  memory  for  to-morrow's  recitation,  until  such 
moment  as   the  cracked  voice   of  the   courtyard  clock 
striking  five  should  proclaim  the  hour  of  release.    The 
usher,  ensconced  in  cathedra,  at  his  high  desk/  a  smaller 
lamp  for  his  especial  benefit  burning  <and  smelling)  by  his 
side  /  a  book  before  him .— '  In  his  own  walk  he  must  have 
passed,  methinks  now,  for  something  of  a  dandy,  in  the 
cheap  line  /  for  he  remains  associated  more  with  sedulous 
trimming    of  nails,  with    pulling    out    of   curly  brown 
whiskers  /  with  a  nervous,  tricky  settling  of  collar,  tie  and 
cuffs  <obviously  false),  than  with  anything  else.  ...  He 

83 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
yawns  amain.  He  consults  his  watch,  and  closes  it  with 
a  click  in  the  midst  of  the  great  silence  of  the  room—the 
silence  made  more  sensible,  rather  than  disturbed,  by  the 
recurrent  splutter  of  a  pen-nib,  or  the  turning  of  a  leaf  of 
Epitome. 

That  Epitome  Historiae  Sacrae  was  a  primer  adapted 
to  first  year  boys—a  small  buckram-bound  book  com- 
pendized,  poetically  expurgated,  and  made  in  truth  singularly 
attractive  to  the  young  imagination— more  attractive  even, 
I  fancy,  than  those  Fables  of  La  Fontaine  and  of  Florian 
that,  read  in  the  light  of  "short  stories/'  were  such 
favourites.  It  was,  by  the  way,  called  Epitome  Sacrae 
or  even  Sacrae  pure  and  simple,  in  the  same  manner  as  the 
volumes  allotted  to  the  two  subsequent  years  were  known 
respectively  as  Latinae  and  Graecae. 
I  would  give  a  fairly  large  coin  of  our  present  money  for  a 
copy  now,  could  I  come  across  one  in  some  old  bookstall  on 
the  quays.  But,  from  their  very  nature,  the  cheapest 
books  are  among  the  rarest  things  to  recover  at  second 
hand. 

It  was  within  the  pale  green  covers  of  that  queer  little 
tome  that  I  tasted  for  the  first  time  the  literary  savour  of 
the  various  genres  in  tale-telling  /  of  pastoral  and  romance, 
of  idyll  and  tragedy.  One  could  not  truly  say  that  any 
very  strong  impression  of  a  sacred  character  was  conveyed 
through  the  collection  of  Holy  Scripture  stories.  But  it  is 
doubtful  whether  anything  read  in  after-life  was  stamped 
so  clearly  on  the  imagination  as  the  poetry  of  Ruth  amid 
the  ears  of  barley,  of  Rebecca  and  the  pitcher  of  water,  of 
Rachel  /  as  the  romance  of  Joseph  and  his  brethren  /  as  the 
tragedy  of  Samson  and  Delilah/  as  the  war  pictures  of 
84 


SCRIPTURE  STORIES 

Jericho  and  Jerusalem.  It  may  have  been  a  jumble  of 
disconnected  tales— and,  for  the  boys,  nothing  more  than 
tales— but  each  remains  cut  out  in  clean  outline  and 
brightest  colours  that  are  never  likely  to  fade.  To  this 
day  a  field  of  golden  corn,  newly  reaped,  in  pastoral 
Dorset,  under  a  hot  harvest  sun,  will  raise  the  bright 
phantom  of  Boaz  and  the  gentle  gleaner.  A  country  lass 
at  the  fountain,  or  even  merely  the  rim  of  some  disused 
and  filled- up  well,  aye  even  such  cryptic  names  as  Jakin 
and  Boaz,  the  pillars,  will  conjure  up  again  some  picture 
first  raised  from  the  pages  of  that  Epitome  Sacrae,  read 
under  the  light  of  the  brown  lamp  gently  swaying  in  the 
draught  of  the  school-room  above  our  ruffled  heads  .  .  . 
and  steadily  smelling  of  petroU 


85 


xn 

CONNECTED  with  those  enthralling  first  tales,  now 
that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  is  the  development  of  certain 
simple  tastes  in  food  which  have  endured  through  a  life  not 
altogether  devoid  of  gastronomic  discrimination.  Among 
these  may  be  mentioned  a  special  delight  in  lentils  ~  later 
on  extended  to  other  members  of  the  pulse  tribe,  but  in  its 
origin  especially  concerned  with  lentils.  It  is  to  be  noted 
that  the  Epitome  rendering  of  what  in  the  Authorised 
Version  appears  as  red  pottage  is  tm  plat  de  lentilles. 
Now  lentils,  stewed  in  some  toothsome  reddish  sauce  <not 
innocent  of  the  savoury  onion)  was  a  standing  Friday 
dish  in  the  refectory  at  Delescluzes  (together,  be  it  said, 
with  a  Saint  Jean  fish-pie— Saint  Jean  being  the  equi- 
valent of  our  own  mediaeval  "  Poor  John/'  otherwise  salt 
cod).  The  small  boy,  however,  who  was  destined,  at  the 
maturity  of  time,  to  become  the  Master  of  the  House  at 
the  Villino  Loki,  was  allowed  a  fair  mutton  chop  of  his 
own  by  special  compact  with  M.  Delescluze,  as  a  con- 
cession to  his  Protestant  heresy. 
The  arrangement  had  been  made 
when  the  dietary  of  the  jours 
maigres  came,  quite  accidentally, 
to  the  knowledge  of  his  anxious 
parents.  Such  a  concession  might 
have  bidden  fair  to  scandalize  the 
youthful  republic  at  dinner  time 
~- if  not  perhaps  on  purely  dog- 
matic ground,  at  least  upon  a  question  of  invidious 
privilege.  But  it  happened  that  the  intended  beneficiary  of 
86 


THE  DELECTABLE  LENTIL 
the  bi-weekly  cotelette  had  been  struck  by  that  puzzling 
tale  of  Esau's  birthright  so  readily  exchanged  for  a  plat 
de  lentilles.  —  Red  pottage  had  become  invested  with  an 
almost  mystical  quality. 

There  is  often  a  good  deal  of  auto-suggestion  connected 
with  matters  of  food  pleasure.  At  any  rate  the  Friday 
plat  de  lentilles  ranked  among  the  most  desirable  of  eatable 
things,  in  his  young  opinion.  The  answer  to  the  jeer  that 
greeted  him  from  the  neighbour  on  his  right,  as  the 
appetizing  grill  was  laid  by  the  grinning  attendant  for  the 
first  time  upon  the  wooden  board  before  him,  was  a  prompt 
offer  of  half  the  flesh  portion  for  the  whole  of  his  allow- 
ance of  pulse— and  a  similar  disposal  of  the  remainder  on 
the  left-hand  side.  One  chop  for  two  plates  of  the  savoury 
mess :  the  barter,  as  far  as  the  pleasures  of  the  table  were 
concerned,  was  one  of  gain,  for  all  parties.  It  had  the 
further  advantage  of  cutting  at  the  root  of  conversational 
unpleasantness.  The  exchange  of  a  single  fat,  heretical 
chop  for  two  helpings  of  orthodox  meagre  fare  became 
an  established  compact—one,  it  must  be  said,  which 
demanded  not  only  secrecy  but  adroitness  for  its 
fulfilment. 

The  redistribution  of  the  courses  was  usually  carried  out 
under  the  shelter  of  an  enormous  broc  <a  relic  of  con- 
ventual furniture),  the  French  representative  of  our  old 
English  Black  Jack  /  an  obese,  jug-like,  wooden  contrivance 
with  iron  hoops,  containing  something  better  than  a 
gallon  of  the  anodyne  mixture  called  abondance~one  part 
thin  red  wine  to  four  of  water.  It  was  a  supply  which 
could,  without  danger  to  sobriety,  be  drawn  upon,  as  the 
regulation  had  it,  a  discretion. 

87 


CUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

The  parties  to  this  lentil  transaction,  which  took  place  at 
the  end  of  the  long  table  farthest  from  the  eyes  of  the 
presiding  usher,  had  to  bid  for  turns.  .  .  .  Where  are  you 
this  day,  you  the  only  two  whilom  reprobate  amateurs  of 
chops  on  fast  days  whose  names  I  can  yet  recall  ?  YOU, 
Victor  de  Mussy,  with  the  notable  store  of  infantile 
catches  and  conundrums  ?  And  you,  Guilleaume  Moreau, 
of  more  plebeian  stamp,  who  used  to  look  up  words  for 
me  in  the  dictionary —a  task  I  truly  loathed— at  the  rate  of 
three  words  for  one  bee-deplume  1  If  you  are  still  in  the 
land  of  the  living,  I  would  take  a  fair  bet  that  it  never 
occurs  to  you  now  to  order,  of  your  own  accord,  a  dish 
of  lentils! 


Another  persistent  "  nostril  memory/7  as  I  have  said,  is 
that  of  the  orange.  It  is  a  curious  one.  Of  a  certainty  I 
must  have  eaten  of  the  golden  apple  many  a  time  before 
that  notable  night  when  I  was  first  taken  to  a  theatre. 
And  yet  it  is  invariably  that  delirious  occasion  which  is 
recalled,  for  however  fleeting  a  moment, 
when  the  bursting  of  the  essential  oil  cells 
of  an  orange  peel  sends  forth  its  fragrance. 
The  drama  was  "  Bos-  de-Cuir  "  —  an 
adaptation  of  Fenimore  Cooper's  Red 
Indian  tale  "Leather  Stocking/'  When 
I  say  that  the  part  of  "  Leather  Stocking  " 
was  taken  by  Frederic  Lemaitre— per- 
sonified genius  of  the  old  Romantic 
Melodrama !—  that  the  playhouse  was 
Les  Folies  Dramatiques—it  will  be  patent 


THE  INCOMPARABLE  ORANGE 

to  anyone  familiar  with  the  annals  of  the  Paris  stage  that 
I  refer  to  a  very  distant  period.  I  could  not  have 
been  more  than  eight  years  old.  In  those  days,  appar- 
ently, the  custom,  delectable  to  the  boys  if  less  so  to 
their  elders,  of  consuming  oranges  between  the  acts  had 
not  yet  fallen  into  desuetude. 

It  is  very  odd.  There  are  as  we  know  a  large  number  of 
recognized  methods  of  eating  an  orange:  from  the 
elaborate  and  super-epicurean  Japanese  dissection  within 
the  skin,  which  removes  every  pellicule  and  every  pip  out 
out  of  the  fruit,  preparatory  to  "  spooning  "  the  pure  pulp, 
with  or  without  sugar,  down  to  the  simple  suction  known 
as  "  Mattie's  way/'  Whatever  be  the  process,  the  effect 
never  fails  if  I  stand  by :  as  sure  as  the  first  puff  of  fresh 
orange  peel  meets  me,  so  is  my  mind  instantly  brought 
back  to  some  scene  connected  with  "  Leather  Stocking  "/  to 
some  sense  of  the  very  first  dramatic  emotion  ever  known 
—the  silent  laughter  of  the  trapper  /  the  faint,  distant  war- 
yell  of  the  Huron  /  the  darting  of  the  bark  canoe  down  the 
rapid  /  the  crack  of  a  gun :  the  flare  of  the  camp  fire—what 
not  ?  It  is,  of  course,  but  a  transient  flash  now,  but  there 
it  always  starts,  harking,  for  a  second  or  so,  back  half  a 
century  in  the  middle  of  completely  unrelated  thoughts  and 
in  surroundings  the  least  likely  to  evoke  the  past— in  the 
silence  of  a  sick  bedside,  or  amid  the  hot  dustiness  of  a 
holiday  crowd ,-  or  even,  at  dessert  time,  in  the  company 
of  some  fair  neighbour  whose  young,  healthy  powers  of 
table  enjoyment  enable  her  to  conclude  a  regular  dinner 
with  a  whole  orange  eaten  in  the  appreciative  and  fragrant 
manner  known  as  a  la  Maltaise. 

Scent  alone,  and  that  only  for  a  second  at  a  time,  possesses 

89 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

this  fantastic  power.  The  taste  of  marmalade,  for  instance, 
is  fraught  with  no  special  memories.  As  for  the  pleasure  of 
sight  in  connexion  with  the  orange,  it  is  now  concentrated 
upon  the  half-dozen  trees— in  pots,  but  bravely  bearing 
year  by  year  their  little  burden  of  fruit  destined  to  grow 
for  purely  ornamental  and  "  Italian  "  effect  within  doors  at 
the  Villino. 

What  a  marvel  would  an  orange  be  considered,  had  it  not 
become  an  object  of  our  everyday  life !  We  take  it  as  a 
matter  of  course/  but  how  much  poorer  would  the  world 
suddenly  seem  if  oranges  became  henceforth  unobtainable ! 
And  the  lemon !  If  lemons  cost  a  guinea  apiece,  I  once 
heard  a  physician  say  who  had  a  special  experience  of  its 
wide-reaching  healing  powers,  then  would  mankind  appre- 
ciate the  treasure  it  has  at  hand !  One-half  of  its  being, 
and  by  no  means  the  less  important,  the  rind,  is  deplorably 
neglected.  We  deal  with  it  as  with  a  practically  worthless 
husk.  If  we  more  generally  understood  the  value  of  its 
ethereal  oil,  we  might  save  ourselves  many  a  spell  of 
unaccountable  physical  depression.  I  can  personally  testify 
to  numerous  instances  of  feverish  bouts  cured  solely  by  a 
hot  decoction  of  lemon  zest. 

A  similar  virtue,  by  the  way,  seems  to  reside  in  the  leaves 
of  the  Citrus  Limonum.  In  southern  countries—especially, 
I  am  told,  in  Spanish  America—these  leaves  are  obtainable 
in  the  dry  state,  and  used  as  a  febrifuge  and  alternative 
"  tea/'  or  rather  tisane,  with  marked  results. 


90 


XIII 

TALKING  of  the  proper  need  of  appreciation  that  might  be 
rendered  to  some  of  nature's  goodly  gifts,  if  only  they  were 
presented  to  us  as  something  rare  and  novel— what  of  the 
humble  but  invaluable  onion  ?  "  The  onion/7  as  Stevenson 
says  in  his  masterpiece,  Prince  Otto  <and  great  was  my 
satisfaction  when  I  first  read  the  pronouncement),  "which 
ranks  with  the  truffle  and  the  nectarine  in  the  chief  place 
of  honour  of  earth's  fruit/' 

Truffle  and  nectarine  are  doubtless  honourable  terms  of 
comparison,  but  I  make  bold  to  believe  that  any  well- 
constituted  jury  of  epicures  would  not  hesitate  to  award 
the  humble  onion  the  place  paramount  among  all  the 
savours  of  civilized  cookery.  There  are  a  certain  number 
of  curiously  constituted  people  who  absolutely  refuse  to 
countenance  the  onion  in  any  connexion,  however  sub- 
dued and  distant,-  who  profess,  whether  in  aesthetic  affecta- 
tion or  through  some  innate  queasiness,  to  look  upon  it  as 
pure  abomination.  There  are  also  those  who  assume  a 
similar  intolerant  attitude  towards  tobacco.  But  who  shall 
deny  that,  even  as  tobacco  to  the  meditative  and  restful 
moments,  the  savoury  onion  has  not  added  through  the 
ages  an  incalculable  zest  to  the  hour  of  physical  restora- 
tion? There  could  be  no  cuisine,  on  any  varied  scale, 
without  it. 

"If  the  onion  did  not  exist,"  said  a  great  cordon-bleu, 
paraphrasing  a  well-known  philosophical  pronouncement, 
"  it  would  have  to  be  invented/' 

Discreetly  introduced,  and  subdued  by  happy  blendings,  it 
holds  the  finest  of  fumets  for  your  gastronomist's  palate : 

91 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
and,  in  all  its  own  undisguised  vigour,  it  will  invest  the 
coarsest  or  most  tasteless  food  with  never-failing  allure- 
ment for  robust  appetites,  whatever  changes  be  rung  upon 
the  raw  or  pickled,  the  white-boiled,  the  golden-fried,  or  the 
brown-stewed. 

It  must  have  been  that  russet  background  of  onion  which 
justified  my  youthful  preconceived  notion  of  the  priceless* 
ness  of  "  Red  Pottage  "  as  an  article  of  food.  It  no  doubt 
fixed  the  taste  for  life.  Of  course,  in  all  matters  of 
earthly  enjoyment,  the  "psychological"  moment  <which, 
by  the  way,  is  so  often  purely  physio- 
logical) plays  an  important  part.  Certain 
tastes  reveal  themselves  only  as  pleasur- 
able in  certain  surroundings.  A  draught 
of  coarse,  dark  wine  of  la  Mancha,  sucked 
out  of  the  goat-skin  sack,  with  its  ob- 
trusive, pitchy  twang,  will  be  a  pure 
delight  on  the  side  of  some  dusty,  stony 
Castillian  road.  And  no  one  who  has 
not  had,  in  some  wild  out-of-the-way 
mountain  village,  to  break  his  fast  at 
peep-o'-day  upon  a  chunk  of  grey  bread, 
stone-ground  and  tasting  of  the  wheat- 
fields,  a  handful  of  salt  and  a  couple  of 
Spanish  onions,  will  ever  know  all  the 
excellences  of  that  juicy  bulb. 
It  is  reported  that,  like  his  furiously 
assertive  relation,  garlic,  the  onion  has 
very  definite  medical  virtues.  Some  claim 
for  it  a  power  to  cure  sleeplessness— 
dreaded  distemper— and  also  various  anti- 
92 


THE  INVALUABLE  ONION 

septic  properties,  This  is  as  may  be.  The  province  of  the 
precious  plant,  the  duty  which  it  fulfils  well  and  simply,  is 
that  of  supplying  savour  to  things  that  may  be  nutritious 
but  lack  appetizing  virtue.  Many  are  the  instances  that 
might  be  adduced  in  support  of  this  economic  plea,  but 
none  more  directly  to  the  point  than  that  of  the  soupe  a 
I'oignon,  which  your  thrifty  French  housewife  contrives 
at  shortest  notice—the  traditional  "soup  meagre/'  object 
of  such  bitter  contempt  in  our  beef-gorging  Hogarthian 
days. 


This  new  culinary  topic  sets  me  once  more  back  in  the 
streets  of  old  Paris,  on  the  occasion  when  I  made  personal 
acquaintance  with  the  possibilities  of  a  penny  meal— the 
best  appreciated  breakfast  1  have  ever  known. 
It  was  in  the  very  last  of  my  French  days.  Paris  had 
then  recovered  from  the  miseries  of  the  German  siege  and 
the  nightmare  of  Commune  anarchy,  three  years  past. 
Within  the  next  few  months  a  new  life  was  to  be  opened 
to  me  in  England.  The  prospect  of  the  great  change,  albeit 
fraught  with  some  features  of  gravity,  was  exhilarating. 
The  Lt/ce'e,  for  all  its  admirable  scheme  of  studies,  had 
lately  been  abandoned  in  favour  of  a  quaint  old  British 
scholar,  very  poor,  very  learned,  who  lived  on  the  heights 
of  Montmartre,  in  the  oddest  little  house— so  filled  with 
books  that  almost  everywhere  one  had  to  move  literally 
edge-ways.  The  very  stairs,  for  lack  of  shelves,  were 
piled  on  both  sides  with  volumes,  old  and  modern, 
tattered  or  nobly  bound,  stored  regardless  of  subjects, 
merely  in  sizes  for  the  sake  of  room. 

93 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
Long  could  I  talk  about  you,  O  my  dear  Mr.  Gilchrist— 
you  with  the  keen  eyes   and  the  vigorous  hook  nose 
<always  half-filled  with  snuff)/  with  the  flowing 
beard  of  venerable  threescore  and  ten,  who 
taught  me  to  read  "  the  classics  "  after 
the  English  manner,  i.e. 
with  a  regard  to  quan- 
tities /  who,  for  the 
modest    and 
evidently 
much  wanted 
fee    agreed 
upon,   gave   me 
<some- 


tuition 


daily  at  least  five  hours 
times  more)  instead  of 
the  stipulated  three !  Hours,  be  it  said,  that  went  by  lightly 
enough  in  that  queer,  snuffy  room,  where  we  sat  facing  each 
other  on  two  straight-backed  chairs— eager  boy  and  no  less 
eager  old  man.  For,  the  Latin  and  Greek  tasks  over,  there 
always  followed  excursions,  one  more  fascinating  than  the 
other,  into  the  deep  and  still  unknown  forest  of  English 
letters.  And  such  was  the  variety  and  the  happy  choice  of 
excerpts  that,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  the  scholar  of 
fourteen  was  oftener  sorry  than  elated  to  leave  the  garrulous 
and  enthusiastic  mentor  on  his  hill-top  and  return  to  the  pa- 
ternal house  in  the  lower  planes  of  the  Champs  Elysees, 
An  odd  way  of  life  for  a  youth,  during  those  last  few  months 
of  spring  and  early  summer  in  Paris !  It  was  full  of  glad 
aspirations  towards  the  future,  it  is  true,  but  at  the  same 
time  not  without  an  almost  regretful  enjoyment  of  the 
present.  The  distribution  of  time  was  peculiar.  There 
was  in  it  a  kind  of  unconscious  anticipation  of  that  light- 
94 


A  SEDULOUS  SCHOLAR 

saving  Bill  of  Mr.  Willet  <which  has  so  little  chance 
of  being  embodied  in  an  Act).  The  queer  boy,  in  his 
transition  stage,  had  taken  a  cranky  turn  on  the  subject 
of  hours.  Having  made  up  his  mind,  on  the  one  hand,  that 
he  had  an  enormous  amount  of  new  things  to  read  and 
assimilate  before  his  fresh  start  in  England  /  and,  on  the 
other,  having  heard  that  one  hour  of  morning  study  was 
worth  <on  what  authority  it  matters  little  now)  two  after 
noon,  he  had  invested  in  a  specially  ferocious  alarum  clock. 
The  merciless  clamour  of  this  machine  drove  him  out  of 
dreamland  daily  at  a  quarter  to  five  ante  meridiem  /  and, 
strange  as  it  undoubtedly  was,  it  is  not  on  record  that 
he  ever  failed  during  that  period  to  obey  the  summons. 
There  must  have  been  somewhere  at  the  back  of  so 
unnatural  a  submission,  of  such  a  persistency  in  a  purely 
self-imposed  and  unnecessary  discipline,  a  sort  of  romantic 
smack  of  mediaevalism.  .  .  .  The  "  sedulous  escholier  "  <so 
warmly  commended  by  Saint  Louis)  was  found  awake 
and  already  absorbed  in  his  search  for  lore  as  returning 
day  began  to  whiten  his  window. 

The  net  result  was  a  couple  of  hours  of  really  earnest 
work  before  it  was  time  to  dispatch  the  morning  bowl 
of  cafe  au  lait  and  the  pain  de  gruau  and  hasten  to  the 
ascent  of  Mons  Martis,  where  impatient  Mr.  Gilchrist 
looked  for  his  scholar's  appearance  at  eight  sharp.  It 
was  very  special  reading— English  History—a  subject  with 
which  the  cours  d'histoire  at  the  Lycee  could  only  deal  in  a 
sketchy  manner  /  but  the  early-rising  escholier,  greedy  of 
new  knowledge,  was  fortunately  helped  by  the  appearance 
in  that  year  of  Green's  "  Short  History  of  the  English 
People/'  and  fell  under  the  charm  of  the  captivating  work. 

95 


XIV 

I  HAVE  said  that  it  is  not  on  memory's  record  that  the 
whilom  schoolboy,  now  in  his  mediaeval  student  mood, 
failed  to  rise  at  the  appointed  clock  crow.  Of  a  truth  he 
rarely  had  less  than  his  eight  hours  good  sleep,  glad 
enough  as  he  was  to  retire  to  rest  at  nine~"  curfew  time/' 
But  it  must  be  admitted  that  on  one  occasion  or  two  he 
succumbed  to  the  weakness  of  compounding  with  his 
studious  resolutions,  The  French  equivalent  of  playing 
truant  is  faire  I'ecole  buissoniere~a  taking  term,  redolent 
of  the  allurement  of  hedgerows  and  free  green  fields.  And 
it  is  the  memory  of  one  of  these  ecoles  buissonieres—or 
rather,  in  this  case,  ecoles  riveraines—that,  through  the 
usual  devious  paths,  brings  me  back  to  the  forgotten 
question  of  soupe  a  loignon. 

It  must  have  been  a  very  early  day  in  May,  for  at  a 
quarter  before  five,  when  the  imperative  rattle  was  sprung, 
sun-rays  were  just  beginning  to  dart  between  the  curtains. 
The  birds  in  the  Champs  Elysees  kept  up  their  concert 
through  the  morning  silence  of  the  gardens  with  more 
persistent  enthusiasm  than  usual.  And  on  looking  out 
of  window,  under  such  a  pure  sky,  the  out-of-door  world 
looked  quite  extraordinarily  inviting,  It  would  have  been 
folly  to  decline  such  an  invitation  ! 

The  "  Short  History,"  opened  at  a  chapter  of  the  Hundred 
Years  War,  was  left  for  the  nonce  undisturbed:  the 
scholar  sallied  forth  to  roam  under  the  tall  trees  of  the 
Corns  la  Reine,  intent,  no  doubt,  on  returning  after  a  short 
stroll.  But  there  is  in  the  early  morning  hours,  especially 
on  such  a  morning,  the  spell  of  the  "invitation  to  the 
96 


PLAYING  TRUANT 

road/7  The  riverside,  so  fresh  and  green,  and  the  unending 
line  of  giant  plane  trees  on  the  quays,  as  he  swung  along 
to  meet  the  sun,  still  low  behind  the  Isle  of  Notre  Dame, 
drew  him  on  and  on.  He  decided  only  to  return  for 
breakfast  and  Gilchrist.  Then  he  bethought  himself  there 
would  be  time  to  stroll  through  those  populous  quarters 
which,  unlike  the  residential  districts,  were  still  in  many 
ways  the  Paris  of  the  Middle  Ages.  That  was  the  Paris 
which  held  for  him  then  so  potent  an  interest'— the  Paris 
within  the  walls  of  Charles  VI,-  the  town  of  Armagnacs 
and  Burgundians,  which  had  been  governed  by  Bedford  for 
his  infant  English  King/  the  crowded  space,  in  short, 
between  the  old  Louvres  and  the  new  Bastille,  which  had 
been  kept  in  order  by  the  tramping  of  English  men-at-arms. 
One  inquisitive  excursion  led  to  another—nearly  two 
hours  had  been  spent  in  delightful  ferreting/  there  was  no 
time  to  return  home  for  breakfast  before  the  Gilchrist- 
ward  ascent.  Meanwhile  a  positively  wolfish  hunger  had 
begun  to  assert  itself.  The  scholar  "  searched  his  pouch/' 
This  was  quite  in  mediaeval  style/  and  what  was  decidedly 
in  the  same  style  was  the  discovery  of  but  two  poor 
deniers  for  all  asset !  His  usual  pocket-money  allowance 
was  then  reposing  on  the  bed-side  table,  far  away,  save 
for  these  two  pennies  luckily  forgotten  in  a  waistcoat 
pocket. 

This  discovery  was  made,  ruefully  enough,  as  he  was 
looking  about  in  the  vicinity  of  Saint  Eustache  for  some 
respectable  restaurateur  wherein  to  obtain  the  matutinal 
coffee.  But  two  deniers  ~-  twopence,  vingt  centimes  -~ 
would  never  purchase  breakfast  at  any  table  under  a  roof. 
What  the  devil  .  .  .  !  Well,  twopence  in  this  workmen's 

g  97 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
district  would  buy  bread  enough,  anyhow,  to  appease  the 
sharpest-set  morning  appetite.  Saint  Eustache,  as  every 
one  knows,  is  close  to  the  Halles  Centrales,  the  great  food 
emporium  of  Paris—a  kind  of  combined  Smithfield,  Billings- 
gate, Covent  Garden,  and  Leadenhall  Market.  The  now 
frantic  owner  of  the  two  pence  was  darting  about  the 
galleries  in  search  of  the  first  bread-stall,  when  he  was 
arrested  by  a  float- 
ing savour,  truly 
ambrosial.  As  he 
stopped  and  invo- 
luntarily, if  quite  i 
obviously,  sniffed,  a 
tempting  voice  rose 
beside  him,  engag- 
ingly familiar :  "Out, 
elle  est  bonne,  ce 
matin.  Tu  en  veux, 
beau  garcon  ?  "  And 
so  saying,  a  fat  smiling  dame  de  la  Halle,  with  an  alert 
eye  to  business,  plunged  a  ladle  into  a  deep  iron  marmite 
and  filled  a  generous-sized  white  bowl,  something  a  trifle 
under  a  pint  in  capacity,  with  a  steaming  brown  pottage, 
that  in  the  circumstances  was  positively  irresistible : 
"Combien,  la  mere  ?  "  asked  the  truant  scholar,  falling  into  the 
speech  suitable  to  the  place,  and  fingering  the  two  modest 
coins  with  doubt  and  anxiety,  even  as  might  a  ravening 
Villon,  a  destitute  Gringoire. 

"Combien,  mon  ptit  gros  ?  Mais  an  sou,  toujours  ! — Et  au 
fromage"  changing  her  tone  to  mock  deference  as  one 
addressing  a  client  of  importance,  "aufromage,  dix  centimes, 
98 


SAVOURY  POTTAGE 

mon  prince  ! — Mais,  bernique  !  ny  en  a  plus  !  "—she  added, 
laughing  complacently  and  tossing  her  head  in  the  direction 
of  a  second  cauldron  that  lay  empty  on  her  left, 
The  more  luxurious  cheese  pottage  being  "  off/'  and  time 
of  importance  <it  would,  volunteered  the  culinary  Madame 
Angot,  take  ten  minutes  to  prepare  the  next  potful)  the 
famished  wanderer  proffered  his  penny  and  received  his 
grateful  bowl  together  with  some  eight  inches  of  "long 
bread "  in  lieu  of  his  half-denier  change.  And,  leaning 
against  a  pillar,  he  set  himself  to  the  enjoyment  of  what, 
as  I  have  remarked  before,  was  the  best  breakfast  of  his 
life. 


Hunger  is  the  finest  of  all  possible  sauces—a  truism  even 
more  than  a  proverb.  The  snatched  crust,  the  draught 
of  clear  water  in  the  palm  of  the  hand,  at  some  dire  moment 
of  want,  is  more  welcome  than  the  most  cunning  dish,  the 
rarest  cup  in  the  easy  tenor  of  life.  But  the  plain  bread 
and  the  clear  water,  however  eagerly  seized,  must  ever 
savour  of  hardship.  Now  this  halfpenny  worth  of  soupe  a 
roignon  bore  none  of  that  character,  for  all  that,  as  far  as 
nutriment  went,  it  consisted  of  naught  but  bread  and 
water.  It  had  all  the  attributes  of  a  civilized  meal :  it  was 
hot,  savoury,  immediately  comforting. 
As  I  disposed  of  it  at  leisure—for  it  was  scalding,  and 
had,  besides,  in  an  Epicurean  way,  to  be  husbanded 
as  a  relish  to  my  portion  of  simple  loaf— I  watched  the 
rotund  but  brisk  dame  prepare  another  instalment  of  the 
superior,  or  penny,  brew  against  the  next  influx  of  cus- 
tomers. The  first  clientele  <it  appeared  in  course  of  friendly 

99 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

if  fitful  conversation)  came  about  six  o'clock— journeymen 
without  a  menagere  at  home,  on  their  way  to  their  day's 
task/  or  night- workers  in  the  Halles,  on  their  way  to 
morning  sleep.  The  next  one  would  begin  soon—clerks, 
(workgirls,  and  small  employes  who  have  to  be  at  their 
post  about  eight.  Then  the  demand  for  the  penny  bowl 
would  rise  afresh  about  noon. 

To  one  who  was  even  then  tasting  the  full  value  of  the 
finished  product  the  method  of  production  had  the  interest 
of  actuality,  and  was  otherwise  enlightening.  And,  pardi  I 
it  is  worth  recording,  as  an  instance  of  what  could  be 
done  with  raw  material  to  the  value  of  twelve  sous— 
less  than  sixpence— to  provide  twenty  people  with  a 
savoury  dishful  of  broth  and  leave  a  distinct  turnover  of 
profit. 

These— as  far  as  I  could  judge— were  about  a  score  of 
medium-sized  onions  of  the  more  pungent  kind  (twopence, 
four  sous  or  four  cents)  /  half  a  pound  or  thereabouts  of 
butter,  salt  butter  it  is  true,  but  your  Parisian  insists 
wherever  he  can  upon  cuisine  au  beurre  <six  sous)  /  a  ladle-full 
of  flour  <say  one  farthing,  half  a  cent),-  something  like  two 
sous'  worth  of  stale  bread,  baker's  shop  remnants.  Leav- 
ing the  cost  of  firing  out  of  consideration— and  in  thrifty 
ingenious  French  hands  it  would  be  small— the  return 
would  be  like  thirty  per  cent,  on  the  outlay. 
As  for  the  technique  of  the  brewing,  it  was  simple  but 
elegant.  The  sliced  onions,  fried  in  the  butter  at  the 
bottom  of  the  iron  pot  to  a  pleasing  sunset  colour  under 
the  watchful  eye  of  the  matron,  were  at  the  right  moment 
powdered  with  the  allowance  of  flour  and  stirred  until 
the  suitable  appetizing  brown  was  achieved—"  The  flour  is 
100 


VIRGIL  ON  "DOGGIES" 

just  to  thicken  the  bouillon,  you  understand,  my  lad/'  the 
benevolent  operator  was  pleased  to  comment,  noticing 
inquisitiveness.— 'Then,  at  the  precise  moment  of  alchemic 
projection,  the  sliced  shreds  of  bread  were  precipitated  in 
the  caldron,  and  gently  turned  round  with  a  wooden  spoon 
to  let  them  take  unto  themselves  all  the  unction  of  the 
butter,  all  the  essence  of  the  succulent  bulbs.  And  pre- 
sently the  whole  thing  was  drowned  under  a  cataract  of 
scalding  hot  water  <some  two  gallons).  After  a  bubble 
or  two  of  boiling  the  combination  was  completed  and  the 
savoury  caldron  was  set  aside  upon  a  nest  of  smouldering 
ashes,  ready  against  the  next  breakfast  seeker. 


And  the  escholier,  having  absorbed  the  last  crumb  and 
the  last  spoonful,  hastened,  greatly  refreshed,  by  every 
conceivable  short  cut  to  his  heights  of  Montmartre— Mons 
Martyrum,  by  the  way,  some  etymologists  insist  on 
dubbing,  in  opposition  to  the  Mons  Martis  theory,  in 
regard  that  it  was  the  site  of  the  martyrdom  of  St.  Denis, 
the  French  "  Champion  of  Christendom/'' 
He  was  a  trifle  late—no  doubt  as  a  result  of  short  cuts— 
and  Mr.  Gilchrist  proportionately  stern,  just  at  first.  But 
the  dear  enthusiastic  teacher  gradually  mellowed  under 
the  influence  of  that  morning's  reading— the  "  Georgics," 
most  enchanting  of  all  Garden  Talk  volumes.  The  old 
scholar's  geniality  had  completely  returned  by  the  time  we 
reached  that "  doggy"  passage  of  the  Third  Book  beginning 
with  "Wee  tibi  cur  a  canton  fuerit  postrema" 
I  can  still  see  him  smiling  confidently  at  me  over  the  line, 

101 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

"  Let  not  thy  dogs  be  the  last  of  thy  cares/'  .  .  .  There 

was  something  prophetic  about  it ! 


Here,  two  score  of  years  later,  as  I  dream  of  the  past, 
lies  Arabella  stretched  by  the  fire,  now  and  again  heaving 
her  great  sighs  of  comfort.  Bettina,  curled  at  my  feet, 
looks  up  adoringly  at  the  master  and  wags  her  stump  of 
tail  whenever  she  meets  his  eye.  As  for  Prince  Loki,  he 
has  commandeered  the  best  deep  armchair,  where  he  lies 
flat  on  his  back,  with  front  paws  folded  upon  his  bosom, 
and  hind  legs  stretched  out  in  abandoned  beatific  fashion, 
snoring  melodiously.  .  .  .  Cura  canum  postrema,  indeed ! 


102 


XV 

THE  Hyacinths  are  all  out  in  the  Dutch  Garden,  But 
alas,  the  winds  of  March !— they  grew  and  gathered  and 
became  a  gale  and  laid 
some  twenty  of  our 
silver-blue  soldiers  pros- 
trate, Their  fat  juicy 
stalks  snap  all  too 
easily.  In  the  pots  on 
the  terrace  wall,  half 
have  been  swept  away. 
However,  thanks  to 
our  close  planting,  only 
the  eye  of  the  initiate 
could  perceive  the  gaps. 
Right  under  the  study 
windows  there  are  still 
twin  lakes  of  exquisite 
pale  sapphire,  breathing 
fragrance. 

In  the  bank  below  the 
Dutch  Garden,  the 
Narcissus,  which  have 
been  set  to  the  tune  of  two 
thousand,  are  swaying  long 
lemon-coloured  buds  out  of  a  field 
of  green  spikes.  There  are,  in  that  tongue  of  land,  two 
Buddleia  trees  which  have  grown  to  unusual  height  and  girth 
and  are  a  mass  of  orange  balls  in  due  season.  And  there  is 
a  band  of  Iris  to  which  we  are  perpetually  adding,  but  which, 

103 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

mysteriously,  never  seems  to  increase.  There  is  also  a 
shrubby  bit  where  you  will  behold  a  wild  rose  tree  /  two 
nondescript  flowering  evergreens/  a  darling  little  Scotch 
Briar,  one  mass  of  yellow  Pompons,  entrancing  by  their 
wild  scent  /  those  disappointing  bushes  known  as  Altheas, 
so  eulogized  by  garden  chroniclers  /  and  a  Rheum. 
We  planted  the  Rheum  last  year.  This  March  it 
astonishes  us  by  the  leaf  buds  it  has  produced.  They 
are  like  stormy,  sinister,  crimson  blossoms  with  gaping 
yellow  mouths,  and  look  poisonous  and  tropical:  alto- 
gether out  of  place  in  a  Surrey  moorland—especially  with 
the  innocence  of  the  grey  Lavender  plant  that  grows 
beside  them.  What  a  thrilling  thing  a  garden  is  and 
how  full  of  surprises  !—do  Rheums  always  do  this,  we 
wonder  ? 


All  the  Compton  pots  along  the  terrace  are  filled  with 
blue  Hyacinths  and  Forget-me-nots/  all  the  beds  about 
the  house  are  stuffed  with  Tulips  and 
again  Forget-me-nots.  Now,  some  people 
<we  read  in  a  garden-book  the  other  day) 
escnew  tnis  Plant'  Myosotis  silvestris, 
because  "it  spreads  so  rapidly  that  it 
may  almost  be  regarded  as  a  weed/'  We 
are  the  kind  of  people  who  like  our 
flowers  to  spread  like  weeds  /  espe- 
cially when,  as  in  the  case  of  this  attractive  sinner,  every 
bed  becomes  a  delicate  cloud  of  blue  from  which  on  long 
stems  the  Darwins  rear  their  cups  of  wonderful  colour. 
A  little  later  on,  we  mean  to  make  the  same  use  of 
104 


CARPETS  OF  BLUE 

Nemophila,  which  last  year,  in  spite  of  ceaseless  rain,  kept 
bravely  blue  in  the  patch  where  it  had  been  sown  until 
quite  the  end  of  autumn. 

Every  one  tells  us  that  Madonna  Lilies  will  not  succeed  in 
our  soil.  We  are  making  another  effort  with  giant  bulbs, 
which,  so  far,  promise  splendidly. 

Fate,  in  its  unexpected  way,  has  provided  us  with  a 
double  row  of  red  Due  van  Thol  Tulips  on  each  side  of 
the  two  little  rose  beds  that  run  down  the  grass 
slope  under  the  bench  yclept  "  Schone  Aussicht." 
That  particular  slope,  by  the  way,  in  the  pristine 
days  of  jungle,  was  the  worst  bit  of  wilderness. 
Heather,  Gorse,  Bramble,  Bracken  and  underwood 
made  it  simply  impenetrable.  Now,  cleared  and 
turfed,  it  leads  the  eye  gently  on  to  the  Pine  Tree 
Avenue/  to  the  green  of  the  fields  beyond/  to  the 
valley  and  the  distant  hills.  In  a  triangular  bed 
at  the  top  a  clump  of  Lilac  has  been  planted  and 
carpeted  beneath  with  "Bachelor's  Buttons/7 
Already  it  is  very  gay,  although  the  Lilacs  are 
only  in  bud.  We  believe  these  double  Daisies  go 
by  another  title  in  gardening  circles,  but  this  is 
a  name  associated  with  youthful  memories.  They  ought 
to  flourish  the  whole  year  round,  since  bachelors  will 
always  be  in  season.  We  shall  see. 


There  is  nothing  that  gives  one  a  more  intimate  sense  of 
the  joy  of  spring  than  the  renewed  song  of  the  birds.  It  is 
good  to  wake  at  early  dawn  and  hear  the  soft  sleepy 
calls  and  cries  with  which  they  first  rouse  each  other,  then 

105 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

the  exquisite  voice  of  thrush  or  blackbird,  singing  as  it 
were  under  its  breath  the  morning  hymn  which  is  one  of 
the  most  touching  things  in  Nature. 
Just  now  a  small  bird  was  spinning  out  a  monody  as 
delicate  and  continuous  and  attenuated  as  a  spider's 
gossamer—some  feathered  mother,  we  fancy,  cradling  her 
eggs.  We  never  heard  any  song  quite  like  it  before. 
Adam  shakes  his  head  and  says  we  are  bringing  the  birds 
about  the  house  with  our  winter  largesses/  but  one  might 
as  well  be  told  that  if  you  want  to  keep  your  house  tidy 
you  should  banish  the  children ! 
Says  Victor  Hugo : 

"  Preservez  moi,  Seigneur,  preservez  ceux  que  faime, 
Freres,  parents,  amis,  et  mes  ennemis  memes, 
Dans  le  mal  triomphants, 
De  jamais  voir,  Seigneur,  la  ruche  sans  abeilles 
La  printemps  sans  oiseau,  I'ete  sansfleurs  vermeittes  . . 
La  maison  sans  enfants  I " 

Substitute  "jar din  "  for  "priniemps"  and  you  have  our 
views.  We  have  no  children  in  this  house,  worse  luck  .  .  . 
except  the  fur  ones. 


Caliban,  the  garden  man,  has  again  broken  his  "  pledge/'  a 
little  quicker  than  usual  this  time,  and  we  fear  we  must  be 
firm  and  keep  to  our  last  ultimatum—that  unless  he  takes  it 
afresh  he  will  have  to  go.  Caliban  always  reminds  us  of 
a  prehistoric  man.  Whenever  one  meets  him  he  looks 
exactly  as  if  he  had  just  reared  himself  upright  from 
running  on  all  fours,  and  would  drop  down  again  tome- 
106 


CONCERNING  CALIBAN 

diately  as  soon  as  we  are  out  of  sight.  He  has  an  excellent 
hard- working  wife,  and  works  very  well  himself— until  the  last 
pledge  has  quite  worn  away.  We  are  sorry  for  Mrs.Caliban, 
the  mother  of  three  prehistoric  babies :  for  we  hear  that 
Caliban,  in  the  philosophic  language  of  the  district, "  knocks 
her  about  a  bit/'  when  he  has  had  what  he  calls  "  his  glass 
of  beer/7— "  YOU  couldn't  wish  for  a  nicer  husband,  when 
he's  sober,"  she  vows,  poor  woman,  and  is  pathetically 
hopeful  every  time  the  oath  of  abstinence  is  administered ! 
It  is  dreadful  how  many  bad  husbands  there  are  in  this 
small  district.  In  another  family  the  father  is  so  well 
known  that  the  mere  mention  of  his  name  is  enough  to 
stiffen  the  employer  of  labour, 

"  Dere  Miss,  my  husband  as  been  very  unlucky  ond  strained 
hisself  again  and  ad  to  give  up  his  work-' 

Thus  the  poor  wife  starts  the  usual  appeal  when  the 
inevitable  has  occurred  and  there  is  no  more  bread  in  the 
house.  We  are  quite  accustomed  to  these  missives,  which 
indeed  might  be  stereotyped  with  space  left  for  the  date. 
Although  the  brother  of  a  local  policeman,  this  black 
sheep  is  altogether  so  hopeless,  that,  in  order  to  keep  his 
poor  little  progeny  from  growing  sable  in  their  turn,  we 
have  placed  a  lamb  out  here  and  there  in  divers  charitable 
folds.  Alfie,  the  last  rescued,  is  a  more  original  letter- 
writer  than  his  mother.  This  was  the  document  that  he 
sent  her  from  that  happy  Home  for  Little  Boys  where  we 
trust  he  will  grow  up  with  an  unimpeachable  fleece. 

"  Dere  Mother  ,-~I  hope  this  finds  you  well.     I  hope  James 
and  Vilet  and  Alice  are  well  and  nice  and  good.     This  is  a 

107 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

very  nice  place.  I  hope  you  will  tell  me  when  you  are  going 
to  call  that  I  may  be  in.  God  bless  you. 

"  Yours  trewlyr 

"ALFRED." 

In  yet  another  family,  the  head  of  which  was  in  the  habit 
of  spending  ten  or  twelve  shillings  a  week  regularly  on 
cigarettes  and  tipple,  until  Nemesis  overtook  him  in  the 
shape  of  consumption,  the  pretty,  hard-working,  fiery- 
haired  Irish  wife  declares  without  a  thought  of  unkindness, 
that  if  she  could  only  get  him  "  out  of  the  way  for  good" 
she  could  "do  all  right"  for  herself  and  her  three  small 
children. 

If  ever  woman  has  a  voice  in  social  reform,  though 
with  a  few  glaring  exceptions  legal  interference  with  the 
liberty  of  the  subject  is  abhorrent  to  Loki's  Grandmother, 
and  she  has  little  wish  herself  for  suffrage  or  any  other 
rage,  she  vows  that  she  will  vote  and  vote  and  vote  for 
any  measure  that  may  tend  to  eliminate  the  Public  House 
from  the  countryside—curse  of  the  small  home  that  it  is ! 
In  every  one  of  these  cases  there  would  be  comfort  and 
happiness  in  the  family  were  it  not  for  the  perpetual 
temptation  to  the  breadwinner. 

The  blacker  the  sheep,  sad  to  say,  the  larger  as  a  rule  the 
family  of  doubtfully  hued  lambs.  Mrs.  Mutton— the  letter 
writer—is  "not  so  well  just  now."  She  is  pathetically 
anxious  that  the  new  babe  may  be  born  alive,  having  lost 
the  last  one.  Loki's  Ma-Ma  went  to  see  her  the  other 
day,  and  found  her  with  a  knowledgeable  neighbour  who 
has  promised  to  "  see  her  through,"  and  in  a  state  of  pro- 
108 


THE  VILLAGE  CURSE 

found  gloom,  not  unmixed,  however,  with  a  faint,  pleasur- 
able importance. 

"  Oh,  Miss,  we  have  just  heard  of  such  a  sad  thing  in  the 
village.  The  nurse,  she's  just  been  up  to  tell  me—a  pore 
young  woman,  Miss,  gone  with  her  first ! " 
"Oh,  dear ! "— Loki's  Mother  is  duly  impressed,  but 
anxious  to  distract  Mrs.  Mutton's  mind— "  That  is  very 
sad.  I  hope  you're  feeling  pretty  well  to-day,  Mrs. 
Mutton?" 

"  No,  Miss,  I'm  very  poorly  these  days.    Mrs.  Tosher 
here  says  she's  never  seen  any  one  like  me.    'What 
can  it  be,'  she  says, '  that  makes  you  like  this  ? '    Don't 
you,  Mrs.  Tosher  ? " 
"  Yes,  my  dear." 

"  I  fell  agin  the  water-butt  this  morning,"  goes  on  Mrs. 
Mutton,  in  the  melancholy  drone  that  is  habitual  to  her. 
"  A  kind  of  weakness  it  was  come  over  me.    I  hit  my 
eye— something  awful,  Miss,  as  you  can  see ! " 
The  signorina  had  been  tactfully  averting  her  gaze  from 
that  black  orb  /  she  now  blesses  the  superior  tact  which 
enables  her  to  contemplate  it  calmly. 
Mrs.  Tosher— a  large,  jovial,  untidy  female  with  a  shrunken 
"  blue  cotton  "  inadequately  fastened  by  two  safety  pins 
across   her  capacious  bosom— gives   a  heavy  but  non- 
committal groan.    Mr.  Mutton's  name  is  not  mentioned. 
The  water-butt  explanation  is  accepted  without  demur. 
"  Of  course,  she's  'ad  a  shock  to-day,  Miss,  you  see," 
says  the  village  matron,  and  brings  the  conversation  back 
to  the  original  topic,  which  is  one  of  great  attraction. 
"  Yes,  Miss,  it  'aving  been  just  as  it  might  be  me,  Miss." 
Mrs.  Mutton  sighs,  and  looks  in  a  detached,  if  one-sided 

109 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

manner,  out  of  the  grimy  window.     The  visitor  perceives 
there  is  nothing  for  it :  she  must  hear  the  details,    Wisely 
she  resigns  herself. 
"What  happened?" 

"  Well,  it  was  all  along  of  two  suet  dumplings  and  some 
chops,  Miss,  which  wasn't  as  they  ought  to  have  been, 
having  been  kept  in  the  'ouse  too  long,  you  see.    Wasn't 
that  it,  Mrs.  Tosher,  my  dear  ? " 
"  Yes,  my  dear,  and  some  'ard  bits  of  parsnip/' 
"  But  it  was  mostly  the  chops,  Miss,  they'd  been  kept, 
you  see.    The  doctors,  they  couldn't  do  nothing  for  her." 
Mrs.  Mutton  sighs  and  lifts  the  fringe  of  her  shawl  to  the 
damaged  eye.    Tragic  as  the  tale  is,  Loki's  Mother  visibly 
brightens : 

"  But  then  the  poor  thing  was  poisoned,"  she  cries  cheer- 
fully. 

"  Yes,  Miss,  potomaine  poison  along  of  her  condition, 
being  the  same  as  mine,  Miss." 
"  But,  Mrs.  Mutton,  anyone—" 

"  No,  Miss."   Mrs.  Tosher  intervenes :  she  cannot  allow 
this  foolish  attempt  at  consolation  to  proceed.    "The 
doctor  said  it  was  along  of  her  condition." 
"  yes,  Miss,  it's  the  condition  as  done  it— all  along  of  a 
bit  of  chop— kept  like— and  'ard  parsnips." 


110 


XVI 

A  FRIEND  of  ours  once  told  us  that  a  doubtful  sister 
in-law  had  written  describing  the  weather  as  "  boysterious." 
The  word  pleases  us.  It  looks  so  much  more  graphic, 
spelt  thus,  than  in  the  ordinary  way.  Well,  we  are  having 
a  "  boysterious "  time  with  shifting  winds,  this  end  of 
March.  All  the  poor  Pheasant-eye's  leaves  are  bruised 
and  drooping,  and  the  little  field  of  Narcissus  under  the 
Buddleia  trees  is  bent  and  tangled.  To-day  Adam  has 
rolled  away  six  tubs  filled  with  last  year's  Hyacinths  and 
put  them  in  the  border  before  the  rough  wall  in  the  front 
courtyard,  against  which  we  have  last  autumn  planted 
Wichuriana  Roses  in  divers  shades  of  yellow  and  tawny, 
chiefly  "  Jersey  Beauties/'  A  row  of  Polyanthuses, 
"  Munstead  Strain,"  are  blooming  in  front.  The 
Hyacinths  are  blue.  The  effect  ought  to  be  pretty  in 
a  week  or  so.  When  the  Hyacinths  are  over  we  shall 
go  back  to  the  old  pink  climbing  Geraniums  for  the  tubs, 
and  they  will,  please  Heaven,  flourish  from  June  onwards 
between  our  yellow  roses.  We  think  we  will  plant  pink 
Geraniums,  but  we  are  not  quite  sure,  for  last  year  we 
had  red  "Jacobys"  in  those  tubs,  and  very  well  they 
looked.  We  should  not  at  all  object  to  them  in  contrast 
to  the  roses. 


Last  night  Loki's  Grandmother  began  to  plan  a  new 
garden  extravagance.  She  finds  it  very  soothing  when  sleep 
abandons  her  pillow.  We  have  not  half  enough  Honey- 
suckle—that's a  fact.  She  thinks  she  will  order  a  dozen  pots. 

Ill 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

She  has  also  a  desire  to  get  a  dozen  Clematis,  chiefly 
Jackmanni,  in  the  mauve  and  purple  sorts,  and  plant  them 
in  their  pots— the  only  way,  she  believes,  in  which  even 
the  commonest  sorts  will  grow  in  this  ungrateful  soil. 
Honeysuckle,  we  know,  thrives  here.  One  summer  we 
took  a  house  on  a  hill  near  this,  a  little  house  buried  in  a 
wood,  and  the  whole  place  was  exquisite  with  the  scent 
of  Honeysuckle.  It  was  grown  all  about  the  house,  and 
over  archways  in  the  garden.  Horrid  archways  made  of 
wire  they  were ;  but  it  didn't  matter,  the  Honeysuckle  was 
the  thing.  We  wanted  all  we  could  get  of  it,  for  there 
were  other  odours,  not  at  all  so  nice,  that  lurked  about. 
The  owner  of  the  house,  thrifty  soul  <at  least  we  suppose 
it  goes  with  a  thrifty  soul),  waged  war  against  moths 
with  naphthalene  and  Bitter  Apple,  which  are  anathema 
maranatha  to  us.  We  have  had  our  nights  poisoned  in  a 
house  in  Scotland  with  the  reek  of  Bitter  Apple  in  the 
blankets.  We  don't  know  what  people's  noses  are  made 
of  that  they  can  voluntarily  surround  themselves  with 
such  a  pestilential  atmosphere.  The  owner  of  the  awful 
blankets  also  keeps  her  furs  with  the  same  evil-smelling 
precaution  /  and  we  can  trace  her  entrance  into  the  most 
crowded  winter  tea-party  in  London  if  she  has  as  much  as 
passed  up  the  stairs. 

Besides  Bitter  Apple  inside  the  honeysuckle-covered  house, 
there  was  a  pig  outside— not  on  the  premises  hired  by  us, 
but  in  the  adjoining  place,  where  there  was  a  school  for 
little  boys.  When  the  wind  blew  from  the  direction  of 
that  school,  the  garden  was  odious,  Honeysuckle  and  all. 
The  first  day  we  hoped  it  might  be  accidental.  Then 
Saturday  came,  and  we  suppose  the  odd  man  did  a  turn 
112 


HONEYSUCKLE  AND  BITTER  APPLE 

at  the  sty,  for  there  was  peace  till  the  next  Tuesday, 
when  the  wind  blew  from  the  south  again.  Then  Loki's 
Grandmother  marched  into  the  room  of  Loki's 
Grandfather  <there  was  no  Loki  then,  so  he  wasn't 
a  grandfather,  but  that  is  immaterial)  and  dictated 
a  letter  to  the  schoolmaster.  Loki's 
Future  Grandfather  protested.  It  is  the 
kind  of  thing  he  hates  doing.  She  drove 
him  into  the  garden  to  smell.  He  tried 
to  say  he  couldn't  smell  it.  Then 
she  changed  her  tactics  and  hinted 
at  insalubrity ~a  case  of  diphtheria 
in  the  village,  and  the  danger  to 
Loki's  Future  Mother.  That  had 
him.  He  went  in  and  sat  down  like 
a  lamb.  She  dictated,  as  has  been 
said.  If  anyone  wants  to  know 
the  kind  of  letter  in  which  to  re- 
monstrate upon  a  neighbouring 
schoolmaster's  pigsty,  he  cannot 
do  better  than  copy  this  model  :, 

"  Dear  Sir, —I  must  apologize  for 
troubling  you  but  I  feel  sure  that 
you  are  unaware  of  the  offensive 
condition  of  the  pigsty  which 
adjoins  our  garden—  " 

"Offensive?"  said  Loki's  Grandpa  doubtfully. 
"  Offensive,"  said  she  firmly.  "  Offensive,  you  can't  put  any- 
thing milder.  It's  disgusting,  pestilential,  a  public  nuisance." 
"  There  is  so  much  sickness  in  the  district—  "she  dictated  on. 

h  113 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  I  need  put  that/'  Loki's  Grandfather 
was  getting  bored. 

"  YOU  must/'  said  she  ,-  "  that  will  fetch  him  more  than 
anything.  Isn't  he  a  schoolmaster  ?  If  it  gets  about  that 
he's  got  an  insanitary  pig—" 

Well,  the  letter  was  finished  with  this  artful  twist.  It  had 
the  most  brilliant  and  unexpected  results.  Not  only  was 
the  schoolmaster  profoundly  grateful  for  having  his  atten- 
tion drawn  to  the  matter— and  the  pigsty  really  was  better 
ever  after— but  he  expressed  his  gratitude  in  the  most 
effusive  terms.  And  he  and  his  whole  family  called,  and 
we  went  to  tea  in  a  thunderstorm  at  the  school-house, 
which  apparently  had  been  built  the  day  before  yesterday, 
for  the  plaster  was  so  wet  the  whole  place  steamed,  and 
Loki's  Grandmother  caught  the  cold  of  her  life. 


It  is  a  very  singular  thing  that  in  Ireland,  the  Padrona's 
native  land,  supposed,  and  with  reason,  to  be  very  inferior 
in  the  matter  of  cleanliness,  the  pig  should  be  so  much 
better  cared  for.  Never  have  we  found  the  sweet  airs  of 
that  beloved  country  impregnated  with  "  bouquet  de  pigsty  " 
as  they  are  in  every  farm  here.  Of  course  most  of  the 
pigs  in  Ireland— nice,  clean,  intelligent,  active  creatures- 
roam  cheerfully  about  the  roads  all  day,  and  share  the 
family  domicile  by  night.  But  even  on  properties  which 
own  a  separate  habitation  for  the  "  gintleman  that  pays 
the  rint "  it  is  swept  and  garnished  for  him  in  a  manner 
seldom  seen  over  here. 

In  the  particular  region  of  Dorsetshire  where  Loki's  Great 
Aunt  dwells  there  is  quite  a  pretty  house  and  grounds 
114 


RUMOURS  OF  THE  PIG-FARM 

nearly  always  tenantless  by  reason  of  the  pig-farm  at  the 
back.  The  farmer  who  kept  the  farm  was  amazed  and 
indignant  when  one  of  the  passenger  tenants  remonstrated 
with  him  and  threatened  him  with  the  Sanitary  Inspector. 
What  if  his  pigs  were  noticeable  ?  "  Pigs  ain't  pizen,"  he 
said.  I  dare  say,  to  him,  by  reason  of  associations  with 
his  bank  account,  they  were  sweeter  than  violets. 
Personally  we  should  never  keep  pigs  for  choice,  no  matter 
how  interested  we  might  be  in  farming.  However  we 
might  insist  on  the  spotless  condition  of  their  dwelling- 
place,  however  affectionately  we  might  invite  them  to  the 
frequent  bath  and  rejoice  at  the  clean  pink  of  their  skins, 
the  horror  of  the  moment  of  inevitable  parting  would 
always  be  before  us. 

A  near  relation  of  ours  was  the  centre  of  a  certain  horrid 
little  anecdote,  likewise  connected  with  pigs,  that  is  never- 
theless humorous  enough.  It  happened  in  Dorset,  in  a 
picturesque  manor-house,  the  walled  gardens  of  which  abut 
on  a  comely,  prosperous  farm.  One  April  morning  the 
air  was  rent  with  the  agonizing  clamours  of  protesting 
pigs  /  and  she,  whose  tender  heart  suffered  with  the  pain 
of  every  animal,  was  rent  too  with  compassion. 
"  Oh,  what/7  she  cried  to  her  hostess,  who  was  also  her 
daughter,  "  what  can  Mr.  Boyt  be  doing  to  the  poor,  poor 
pigs  ?  Oh !  Polly,  I'm  afraid  he's  killing  them  ! " 
Polly  was  not  at  all  sure  in  her  own  mind  that  this  was 
not  the  case,  but  she  was  stout  in  asseverations  to  the 
contrary. 

"  Oh,  dear  no,  darling  /  nobody  ever  kills  pigs  this  time 
of  year.  They're  just  cleaning  out  the  sties,  that's  all. 
YOU" know  what  pigs  are,  darling/' 

115 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

In  spite  of  a  fresh  and  most  dismal  explosion,  her  mendacity 

rose  equal  to  the  occasion  /  and  her  final  statement,  that 

she  knew  for  a  fact  that  pigs  weren't  half  fattened  yet, 

produced  the  intended  effect,  and  the  dear  visitor  was 

convinced. 

Later  in  the  day  when  all  was  stilled  once  more,  and  the 

lovely  April  afternoon  as  full  of  country  peace  as  it  should 

be,  the  two  went  out  and  down  the  lane  /  the  guest  in  a 

donkey-chair  and  her  daughter  by  her  side.    To  the  tatter's 

discomfiture  on  their  return  they  met  the  portly  form  of 

Mrs.  Boyt,  emerging  from  the  walled 

garden  with  an  empty  egg-basket. 

Mrs.   Polly  was   very  anxious   to 

skirmish  the  donkey-chair  past 

with  an  ingratiating  and  nervous 

giggle/  but  neither  the  donkey 

nor  the  lady  in  the  chair  would 

fall  in  with  her  strategy.    The 

lady  in  the  chair  had  a  liking 

for  Mrs.  Boyt,  and  was  amused 

at  the  thought  of  a  little  chat 

with  her/  and  the  donkey,  like 

all  self-respecting  donkeys,  was 

bound  in  honour  to  stop  dead 

when  it  was    most  wanted  to 

advance.      Perhaps,  too,    Mrs. 

Polly's  artfulness   had   aroused 

lingering    suspicions,    for     the 

lady   in   the   chair    was    very 

firm: 

"Good    evening,    Mrs.    Boyt. 

116 


TIRING  WORK 

<No,  Polly,  it's  not  cold  at  all,  No,  I'm  not  going  in  yet.) 
How  is  Mr.  Boyt?" 

"  Mr.  Boyt  he  be  fairly,  thanking  you  kindly,  'm,     Of 
course  he  be  a  bit  tired  this  evening/' 
Mrs.  Polly,  with  a  wild  eye,  intervened. 
'Tin  afraid  it's  tea-time,  darling.    H'm- H'm— A  beauti- 
ful evening— Mrs.  Boyt,  my  Mother  was  admiring  the  little 
calves—Come  on,  Bathsheba ! " 

In  vain  she  clucked,  in  vain  she  pulled  the  reins /  Bath- 
sheba  merely  twitched  an  ear.  The  clear  voice  from  the 
bath-chair  put  all  efforts  to  turn  the  conversation  on  one 
side  with  a  decision  which  swept  her  into  silence. 
"Tired?  Did  you  say  your  husband  was  tired,  Mrs. 
Boyt?" 

"  Yes  'm.    Pigs  be  very  tiring." 

"Pigs,  Mrs.  Boyt?— Oh!  what  was  he  doing  with  the 
poor  pigs  this  morning?  He  wasn't— he  wasn't  killing 
them?" 

"  Oh,  'ess  'm."    And,  blind  to  the  horror  and  disgust  on 
her  listener's  face,  Mrs.  Boyt  proceeded  with  unction : 
"  Beautiful  pigs  they  was,  six  of  them." 
"  Oh,  but  he  didn't  do  it  himself?" 
"  Oh,  'ess  'm."    Mrs.  Boyt  was  much  shocked.    "  We 
allus  do  it  ourselves,  I  do  hold  en,  and  Boyt  he  do  stick 
en— very  tiring  it  do  be  for  us  both ! " 
It  was  only  Mrs.  Polly  who  saw  the  humour  of  the  situation 
in  after  days.    The  beloved  lady  in  the  bath-chair  remained 
overwhelmed  with  the  tragedy.     It  was  not  a  subject  that 
could  be  referred  to  again  in  her  presence. 


117 


XVII 

HOW  delightful  it  is  to  come  back  to  our  moors  after 
London !  Loki's  Grandmother's  heart  always  sinks  when 
the  bricks  and  mortar  begin  to  spring  up  about  the 
road,  and  the  houses  close  in  around  her.  Some- 
times she  thinks  that  what  weighs  upon  it  is  the 
sense  of  all  those  miles  of  squalor/  of  all  those 
hives  of  human  misery/  of  all  the  sin  and 
suffering.  Perhaps,  however,  she  is  influenced 
by  mere  distaste  of  the  crowd  /  displeasure  in 
living  one  of  a  herd  in  a  jostle  of  houses  /  the 
ignominy  of  being  a  number  in  a  row  with 
undesired  neighbours  on  either  side!  Who 
would  prefer  to  look  on  pavements,  area 
railings  and  lamp-posts  /  to  listen  to  the  roar 

-  and  turmoil  of  a  life  one  has  no  ambition 

-  to   share— a  life  vexing  the  peace  of  night 
and  day,  rather  than  feast  the  eyes  on  cool 
green  loveliness,  on   rolling  moorland/   the 
ear  on  vast  delicious  silence  or  the  choiring  of 

windswept  woods  ?  How,  in  fact,  can  anyone  who  has  the 
choice  live  in  town,  instead  of  in  the  fair,  quiet,  spacious 
country?  One  cannot  feel  one's  soul  one's  own  in 
London:  bits  of  it  are  perpetually  escaping  to  join  the 
giddy  midge  dance.  The  individuality  evaporates.  But 
then— there  are  concerts,  and  Wagner's  operas  /  and  one's 
own  select  friends  and  the  interest  of  the  great  intellectual 
movements  !  The  splendid  activities  of  life  seem  to  pass 
one  by  in  the  country.  Well,  we  suppose,  like  everything 
else  in  existence,  one  must  take  the  see-saw  as  it  comes, 
118 


A  SCHEME  OF  AZURE  AND  TAWNY 

and  accept  the  bumps  for  the  sake  of  the  soaring.     But 
we  are  always  glad  to  come  back  to  Villino  Loki. 


The  discoveries  one  makes  in  the  garden  after  ten  days' 
absence  are  thrilling.  The  three  rows  of  Thomas  More 
Tulips  under  the  dining-room  window  are  colouring  to  a 
glorious  orange,  and  the  Forget-me-nots  planted  between 
them  are  showing  little  sparks  of  blue.  The  tawny  Wall- 
flowers at  the  back  are  not  all  we  could  wish  /  but,  even 
pinched  as  they  are,  the  effect  of  their  many  velvet  hues  is 
satisfactory.  There  is  a  single  row  of  double  Tulips 
<Prince  of  Orange)  at  the  edge  of  the  bed,  between  the 
Forget-me-nots.  In  a  week  or  so,  looking  up  the  terrace, 
there  will  be  five  lines  of  flame  running  gloriously  out  of 
the  blue/  a  sight  to  delight  the  eye,  against  the  curious 
bronze  purple  the  moor  wears  just  now. 
The  Scillas,  which  we  thought  were  going  to  fail  us,  have 
been  a  tremendous  success,  and  still  form  pools  of  glowing 
blue  round  the  almond  trees.  Next  year  we  intend  to 
make  a  feature  of  Scillas.  They  are  such  tiny  bulbs  that 
they  can  scarcely  interfere  with  anything/  and  we  shall 
slip  them  in  among  the  perennials  in  every  corner,  besides 
putting  more  in  the  grass  terraces.  We  are  also  going  to 
run  riot  with  "  Steeple-Jacks/7  especially  the  light  turquoise 
kind.  They  last  an  immense  time  and  are  of  a  delicious 
tint.  The  long  border  of  Campanelle  Jonquils  that  we 
have  planted  in  what  we  call  the  "  Bowling  Green  "  are 
drawn  up  as  for  a  review,  stiff  and  straight  like  little 
soldiers  in  bright  gold  helmets.  Next  year  we  shall  invest 
in  three  or  four  thousand  Daffodils  for  the  rough  places 

119 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

under  the  trees/  and  we  mean  to  star  the  banks  with 
Primroses  and  Wild  Violets. 


We  have  made  a  vast  improvement  these  days  by  turfing 
most  of  the  walks,  and  we  now  look  out  on  a  delicious 
sweep  of  green.  The  Lily  Border  and  its  opposite  neigh- 
bour, the  tongue  of  land  with  the  Buddleia  trees  and 
shrubs,  look  infinitely  more  attractive  thus  set  into  the 
verdure.  Great  clumps  of  yellow  Polyanthuses  and  self- 
sown  Forget-me-nots  make  it  gay  while  we  are  waiting 
for  the  Narcissus  Poeticus,  the  Poppies,  the  Lilies  and 
other  joys  to  break  upon  us.  The  field  of  mixed  Nar- 
cissus under  the  trees  is  going  to  be  one  sheet  of  blossom 
in  a  few  days,  blown  about,  though  they  be,  poor  darlings, 
by  these  fierce  and  cruel  winds.  The  papers  are  full  of 
exclamations  over  "winter  in  April":  so  far  our  high- 
pitched  garden  has  stood  it  well.  This  is  the  advantage, 
we  suppose,  of  its  natural  backwardness. 
We  are  now  fired  with  the  desire  to  turf  the  Dutch 
Garden/  the  path  under  the  second  terrace,  i.e.  Blue 
Border,  and  also  the  path  leading  from  the  Bowling  Green, 
so  that  we  shall  look  down  on  a  succession  of  green  levels, 
each  with  its  wealth  of  flowers.  We  want  to  make  the 
whole  little  place  shine  like  a  jewel  out  of  the  rough  setting 
of  the  moor. 

Talk  of  the  zest  of  gambling !  'Tis  impossible  that  it  could 
more  possess  the  soul  in  defiance  of  purse  and  prudence 
than  the  garden  mania.  If  Loki's  Grandmother  had  hold 
of  a  cheque  book  <which  she  hasn't)  she  is  afraid  the  family 
substance  would  flow  away  from  month  to  month  into 
120 


TEMPTATION 

bulbs  and  blossoms,  tubers  and  saxifrages,  clumps  and 
climbers/  not  to  speak  of  such  prosaic  but  necessary 
accompaniments  as  loam,  manures,  lawn-mixtures  and 
"  vaporisers."  She  would  build  at  least  two  new  green- 
houses and  double  her  garden  staff.  And  perhaps  after 
all  she  wouldn't  be  half  as  happy  as  she  is.  For  she 
might  be  led  into  "  named  novelties/'  and  garden  rivalries, 
and  splendours  of  artificial  rockeries  where  in  the  centre 
of  vast  beds  of  slag  some  microscopic  curiosity  no  larger 
than  a  spider  would  spread  a  fairy  claw  in  the  shadow  of 
a  monstrous  label.  Perhaps  she  might  be  bitten  with  an 
unwholesome  passion  for  Orchids,  and  spend  the  portion 
of  her  only  child,  and  all  the  fur  grandchildren,  on  the 
devilish  attractions  of  those  plants  which  are,  we  are  con- 
vinced, flowers  of  evil. 

Just  now  her  last  extravagance  has  been  to  order  three 
and  six  worth  of  White  Honesty  at  ninepence  a  dozen, 
to  plant  in  among  the  new  Rhododendrons  /  and  she  is 
suffused  with  satisfaction  at  the  prospect  of  anything  so 
cheap  and  charming.  We  recommend  the  effect,  dis- 
covered quite  accidentally. 


We  have  really  abominable  weather.     It  is  very  unusual. 

"  Oh,  to  be  in  England, 
Now  that  April's  there !  " 

is  an  aspiration  justified  as  a  rule  by  a  tender  interlude 
between  the  tantrums  of  March  and  the  asperities  of 
May.  Last  year  April  came  in  skipping  like  a  kid  on  the 
Campagna,  even  its  freakishness  full  of  attraction.  Is 

121 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

anything  more  charming  than  to  see  the  kids  playing 
among  the  flocks,  as  one  drives  along  those  roads  of 
haunting  and  mysterious  beauty'— under  that  sky  incom- 
parable in  its  gem-like  purity  /  to  see  the  shepherd  in  his  sheep- 
skin seated  on  a  fence  with  his  legs  cross-bandaged,  the  shrill 
pipe  to  his  lips  /  to  hear  his  wild  strain  and  know  that  it 
was  all  just  the  same  a  thousand  years  ago  and  more  ?  The 
kids,  as  they  leap  out  of  the  scattered  flocks,  are  cut  against 
the  blue  as  on  some  classic  frieze  /  the  tawny,  melancholy 
plain  falls  and  rises  and  falls  again  till  the  hills  amethystine, 
snow-capped,  close  the  field  of  vision  in  the  far  distance ! 
The  broken  line  of  an  aqueduct  gleams  as  if  golden. 
"To  be  in  Italy, 
Now  that  April's  there  ! " 

Loki's  Grandmother  believes  she  would  give  up  her 
country  and  Villino  Loki,  and  expatriate  herself  for  ever 
gladly.  But  Italy  is  not  expatriation,  it  is  the  home  of  the 
soul.  (Loki's  Grandpa  says  he  quite  admits  all  that— but 
that  for  a  permanency  he  prefers  his  Surrey  hills.) 
The  fires  on  the  Campagna  are  rose-carmine  as  the 
pointed  flames  pulsate  upwards.  Our  fires  here  are  only 
just  the  usual  yellows.  Where  is  it  that  Italy  holds  the 
secret  ?  Is  it  in  the  translucence  of  the  atmosphere  ?  How 
the  sunlight  there  lies  on  a  common  plaster  wall !  How 
the  stone  flushes !  Just  a  little  white  Villino  on  a  hill-side 
stands  in  a  radiance  of  its  own,  and  is  not  white  at  all 
but  topaz  coloured ! 

To-day,  the  fifteenth  of  April,  has  been  as  grey  and  bleach 
ing  a  day  here  as  we  never  wish  to  meet  again.    Even 
the  spears  of  the  Narcissus  are  bruised  and  drooping. 
122 


XVIII 

MRS.  MUTTON,  poor  soul,  has  had  a  dead  infant.  It 
is  perhaps  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at,  as  she  had  another 
encounter  with  the  water-butt  shortly  before  the  event/ 
but  she  is  as  much  "  taken-to "  as  if  she  had  been  hoping 
to  bring  an  heir-apparent  into  a  realm  of  splendour.  The 
doctor,  to  console  her,  asked  her  hadn't  she  plenty 
already. 

"  I  did  think  it  unkind  of  him,  Miss !  It  does  seem  'ard ! 
I  did  so  seem  to  long  for  this  one  to  live ! " 
We  had  a  confidential  conversation  with  the  experienced 
matron  who  was  ministering  to  her,  and  we  mentioned 
the  water-butt  with  some  severity.  But  Mrs.  Tosher 
would  have  none  of  this.  Hers  is  a  large  mind  philo- 
sophy : 

"  Ho !  well,  you  see,  Miss,  it's  just  as  it  takes  them. 
I  don't  say  as  Mutton  isn't  a  bit  fond  of  his  glass  /  but 
after  all,  Miss,"  she  smiled  indulgently,  "you  must  re- 
member he  was  a  bit  upset-like.  It  isn't  as  if  there  'adn't 
been  a  reason.  When  'e  'eard  there  was  going  to  be 
another,  it  turned  'im  against  'er.  Of  course,  poor  feller ! 
That  was  only  to  be  expected  like'—" 
"Good  Heavens!" 

Mrs.  Tosher  smiled  more  broadly  than  ever  at  our 
innocence. 

"  Some  men  do  take  it  very  'ard ! " 
Words  failed  us.    We  could  not  reason  upon  such  a 
point  of  view. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  garden  the  "  little  cot,"  as  Mrs. 
Adam  calls  it,  which  she  and  her  husband  have  made  so 

123 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

pretty,  has  been  the  scene  of  a  similar  domestic  event 
which  makes  the  contrast  still  more  poignant.  A  little 
Eve,  in  fact,  has  been  born  into 
our  small  garden  of  Eden.  She 
has  received  a  joyful  welcome. 
That  most  attractive  child,  black- 
eyed  Adam  Junior,  with  the 
mysterious  intuitition  of  child- 
hood had  recently  been  bom- 
barding heaven  for  a  little 
sister.  He  is  now  thrilled  and 
triumphant  at  the  success  of 
"his  prayers.  We  personally 
are  quite  pleased  with  the 
addition  to  the  famiglia. 
We  wonder  whether  it  is 
because  of  the  Italian  atmo- 
sphere that  has  so  unaccount- 
ably descended  on  Villino 
Loki  that  we  and  our  estab- 
lishment are  really  falling  into 
relations  not  unlike  those  which  so 
happily  subsist  between  master  and 
servant  in  Italy.  The  Master  is  not  master,  but  Father-in- 
chief  /  the  servant  are  not  servants,  but  members  of  his 
family— the  famiglia. 

We  were  afraid  our  last  winter  in  Rome  had  spoilt  us 
for  English  ways.  We  had  a  delightful  famiglia  there. 
Fioravanti  di  Rienzo,  the  pearl  of  cooks  /  Camillo  Lanti, 
the  clever,  busy,  and  quite  reasonably  peculating  butler  ,- 
and  Aristide  <surname  unknown),  the  superb  coachman, 
124 


A  FEARFUL  DREAM 

all  begged  with  tears  to  come  back  to  England  with 
us, 

"  Take  but  a  postcard/'  cried  Camillo,  "  and  write  upon 
it '  Camillo,  come/  and  instantly  I  start/' 
"Will  ever  anyone  drive  the  Excellencies  as  I  drive 
them  1"  Aristide  demanded.  "  I  would  learn  the  ways  of 
Londra  in  a  day—two  days,  To  learn  the  ways  of  Londra, 
that  would  be  nothing/  but  to  drive  another  family, 
that  I  feel  I  cannot  ever  again  ! " 
It  was  Fioravanti  whom  we  loved  the 
most,  and  whom  we  did  really  try  to 
get  over  to  us  later.  But  it  was  a 
case  of  binding  engagements  on  one 
side  and  the  other.  He  had  given  his 
word,  as  a  man  of  honour,  to  re- 
main a  year  with  his  new  family, 
and  we  were  pledged  to  some  new 
cook  at  the  moment  when  he  was 
free.  So  it  all  came  to  nothing— 
which  was  perhaps  just  as  well, 
He  was  a  choleric  little  man. 
Loki's  Mamma  dreamt  he  stabbed 
the  kitchen-maid  and  buried  her  in 
the  garden,  which  was  not  at  all  an 
unlikely  thing  to  happen,  for,  like  Vatel, 
his  dishes  were  his  glory,  his  honour  was 
bound  up  in  them,  and  the  race  of 
Cinderellas  in  this  land  wouldiinflame 
the  blood  of  such  an  enthusiast. 


This  is  not  to  say  that  all  Italian  servants  are  like  those 

125 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

three,  We  had  some  very  thrilling  experiences  in  the  shape 
of  Roman  rascality  during  our  first  weeks  of  housekeeping 
there.  After  the  odd  custom  we  had  one  woman  servant 
to  three  men  /  and,  as  the  genus  housemaid  does  not  exist 
at  all  in  many  parts  of  the  Continent,  we  had  extreme 
difficulty  in  procuring  a  donna  di  faccenda.  We  had  a 
whole  large  house  in  the  Via  Gregoriana,  and  it  was 
imperative  we  should  have  something  female  to  scrub  its 
bedrooms  and  bathrooms.—  Scrub  ?  It  is  not  a  word  you 
could  get  any  Roman  to  understand  the  meaning  of,  much 
less  put  into  application/  but  still  we  had  to  get  some- 
body to  sweep  the  dust  into  the  corner  or  under  the  rug, 
and  pass  an  occasional  wet  rag  languidly  round  the  rim  of 
a  bath.  Loki's  Ma-Ma,  being  the  Italian  scholar  of  the 
family,  engaged  the  staff.  She  was  enchanted  with  the 
appearance  of  a  splendid  young  girl  from  the  Campagna, 
with  cheeks  like  ripe  nectarines,  and  a  coroneted  black 
head.  Alert  and  brisk  as  a  mountain  kid,  she  seemed  to 
us.  Alas !  who  could  have  thought  it  ?  The  creature  was 
a  bacchante  !  She  ordered  in  a  cask  of  wine  all  for  herself, 
and  then  ran  out  the  second  evening  and  never  came  in 
till  the  next  morning.  Having  danced  with  Bacchus  all 
night,  she  was  altogether  unfit  for  any  Christian  habitation 
in  the  morning.  It  may  be  all  very  well  to  sleep  off  the 
red  fumes  on  a  thymy  bank  in  a  pagan  world  /  but  it's 
not  at  all  poetical  or  attractive  at  close  quarters  within 
four  walls  !  A  sordid,  pitiful,  revolting  business  !  And 
the  happy  mountain  kid,  who  proved  after  all  to  be  only 
a  bad  little  gutter  goat,  had  to  be  driven  forth  when 
the  legs  that  had  caracoled  so  much  were  able  to  crawl 
again. 
126 


ROMAN  MEMORIES 

Aristide  had  a  profile  like  the  head  of  a  philosopher  on  a 
Roman  coin.  He  was  a  magnificent  driver.  We  had  a 
pair  of  powerful,  fiery  Russian  horses,  and  they  wanted 
all  his  skill.  Whenever  they  took  to  plunging— and  when 
they  did  so  they  struck  sparks  out  of  the  stones  and  filled 
the  street  with  the  thunder  of  their  hoofs— Aristide's 
method  of  reassuring  "his  family "  was  invariably  to 
gather  the  reins  in  one  hand  and  blow  his  nose  with  great 
desinvolture  with  the  other.  He  always  turned  sideways 
to  do  this,  flourishing  an  immense  pocket-handkerchief,  as 
one  who  would  say :  "  Behold !  how  calm  I  am !  ... 
Have  no  fear ! " 

Only  on  the  occasions  when  we  discarded  our  carriage 
for  the  use  of  a  motor  was  the  harmony  disturbed  between 
Aristide  and  ourselves.  He  would  droop  on  his  box  for 
days  afterwards  and  take  the  characteristic  Roman  revenge 
of  declining  to  shave. 

Loki's  Grandmother  developed  a  sudden  and  violent  attack 
of  influenza  on  one  of  these  motor  expeditions,  and  had  to 
be  conveyed  home  in  a  collapsed  condition. 
"  Ah,"  said  Aristide,  "if  Mamma  had  been  with  me,  this 
would  not  have  happened!  Autos  are  nasty  feverish 
things/' 


We  were  very  sorry  to  leave  our  Roman  house,  with  its 
delicious  proximity  to  the  Pincio.  It  was  a  very  old 
house,  with  a  round  marble  staircase,  deep-grilled  win- 
dows, and  a  delightful  tiled  inner  courtyard  filled  with 
green,  where  a  fountain  splashed  day  and  night— a  court- 
yard into  which  the  sunshine  literally  poured.  A  great 

127 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
many  of  the  objects  which  now  give  us  pleasure  at  Villino 
Loki  we  placed  originally  in  that  double  drawing-room 
which  the  owners  of  the  house  had  left  in  somewhat 
denuded  condition. 

The  gardener  of  the  Barberini  Palace  kept  us  supplied 
with  hired  plants,  Never  have  we  seen  Azaleas  or 
Orange  trees  grown  like  those, 
with  such  exquisite  artistic  free- 
dom. We  had  a  Tangerine 
tree  that  was  a  complete  joy. 
This  arrangement  worked  beauti- 
fully for  the  first  month.  But  un- 
fortunately the  gardeners,  father 
and  son,  were  professed  anar- 
chists and,  when  they  were  in 
their  cups,  their  ethical  principles 
overcame  their  business  sense. 
Loki's  Grandmother  had  one 
day  to  stand  by  helplessly  while 
Loki's  Ma-Ma  was  cursed  and 
vituperated  in  a  foam  of  vulgar 
Italian  for  innocently  requesting 
to  have  a  faded  Azalea  replaced. 
Not  being  able  to  speak  Italian 
herself,  she  could  not  come  to  the  assistance  of  her  more 
talented  daughter.  .  .  .  And  both  felt  ignominiously  in- 
clined to  cry!  . .  .  Alas !  that  any  spot  so  beauty-haunted 
should  have  been  desecrated  by  such  coarse  and  stupid 
passions!  Those  gardens  of  the  Barberini,  with  their 
Lemon  groves  and  Orange  groves/  the  lush  grass  filled 
with  Narcissus  and  Violets,  and,  in  the  Roman  way,  with 
128 


ORANGES  AND  ALMOND  BLOSSOM 

water  dripping  from  every  corner  /  with  the  bits  of  columned 
wall  and  the  statues  and  the  three  great  stone  pines  against 
the  blue  sky !  It  is  all  Italy  in  one  small  enclosure. 
We  moved  from  the  Pincian  Hill  to  much  less  interesting 
quarters  /  but,  with  the  luck  that  followed  us  all  through 
that  happy  time,  quite  close  to  the  Borghese  gardens. 
There  we  had  a  black-and-white  tiled  dining-room  and  a 
long  drawing-room  all  hung  with  pearl  grey  satin  and  a 
wonderful  Aubusson  carpet.  And  when  the  room  was 
filled  with  almond  blossom  there  were  compensations  for 
the  exiguity  of  our  accommodation.  The  lady  who  was 
obliging  enough  to  accept  us  as  her  tenants  <for  a  rent 
that  filled  our  Roman  friends  with  horror  at  our  profligate 
extravagance),  although  bearing  a  noble  Austrian  name,  it 
was  darkly  whispered,  had  a  commercial  origin.  Her 
businesslike  spirit  certainly  showed  itself  in  her  transac- 
tions with  us  /  for  neither  blankets,  nor  cooking  utensils, 
nor  the  necessary  glass  and  china  were  forthcoming,  in 
spite  of  magnificent  assurances. 

"  What  will  you  ? "  said  Fiori,  our  beloved  little  chef,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders,  "  Sono  Polacchi  I "  "  The  Countess/' 
he  informed  the  young  housekeeper,  "sent  in  her  maid, 
and  I  showed  her  the  few  poor  pans,  the  miserable  couple 
of  pots  she  expected  me  to  do  with.  '  Is  it  not  enough  1 ' 
she  cried.  '  Enough  ? '  I  answered.  '  Enough  perhaps  for 
your  lady,  for  a  service  that  is  content  with  an  egg  on  a 
plate,  or  one  solitary  cutlet !  But  my  noble  family  must 
be  nobly  served/  " 

Excellent  Fiori,  he  used  to  trot  upstairs  every  night  to 
receive  his  orders,  clad  in  the  most  spotless  white  gar- 
ments and  a  new  white  paper  cap,  which  he  doffed  with  a 

i  129 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

superb  gesture  on  entering  the  room.  Upon  receiving 
a  well-deserved  compliment,  he  would  spread  out  his  small 
fat  hands  and  bow  profoundly,  exclaiming,  "My  duty, 
Excellency,  only  my  duty ! " 

In  one  single  instance  was  his  entire  content  in  our  estab- 
lishment clouded  /  that  was  when,  in  a  moment  of  abstrac* 
tion,  he  forgot  to  send  up  a  dish  of  young  peas—the 
first  in  the  market— which  he  had  prepared  with  his 
own  superlative  skill,  and  adorned  with  a  pat  of  fresh 
butter  whipped  to  a  cream  at  the  top :  "All'  Inglese," 
he  called  it.  We  believe  he  spent  the  evening  in  tears, 
and  he  could  not  speak  of  it  next  day  without 
emotion. 

"Useless,  useless,  to  try  and  console  me,  Ex- 
cellency/' he  exclaimed.  "  I  am  profoundly  humiliated, 
I  shall  never  get  over  it ! " 


130 


XIX 

THE  warm  weather  has  come  with  a  burst  in  this  last 
week  of  April.  We  have  torn  ourselves  away  from  Villino 
Loki  to  London  pavements.  The  Floribunda  trees  are 
covered  with  red  buds.  We  expect  a  glory  when  we  return. 
Loki's  Great  Aunt  has  presented  his  family  with  twenty- 
five  shillings  worth  of 
purple  Aubretia,  with 
which  <much  to  Adam's 
annoyance)  we  have  de- 
cided to  carpet  the  blue 
border.  The  Blue  Border, 
we  think,  is  under  some  evil 
bewitchment.  Our  late  gar- 
dener assured  us  that  no 
"human  gardener "  could 
find  room  for  another  plant. 
Vet  it  was  the  only  border 
in  the  garden  that  "came  up 
bald/'  if  one  can  use  such 
an  expression.  Perhaps  we 
had  too  much  initiative  and 
he  too  little  /  a  combination 
bound  to  result  in  failure  sometimes,  if 
it  is  accompanied  on  one  side  by  plunging 
ignorance,  and  on  the  other  by  "slow- 
ness of  intellect,  Birdie,  my  dear.7/ 


To  come  back  to  one's  garden  in  April  after  ten  days  of 

131 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
strenuous  London  is  a  wonderful  little  experience  for 
people  who  care  for  the  pure  joys  of  the  young  green  and 
the  spring  flowers.— -There  is  an  indescribable  panorama  of 
woodland  beauty  on  the  hills  opposite  Villino  Loki.  A 
great  marching  regiment  of  pines,  straggling  upwards, 
emphasize  the  tints  of  birch  and  larch— tints  which  no  pen, 
hardly  any  brush,  could  portray.  The  very  sunlight 
seems  caught  and  sent  forth  again  from  the  pale  yet  vivid 
sheen.  The  White  Broom  is  pearled  with  bud  /  in  a  few 
days  it  will  burst  into  bloom  and  toss  plumes  as  of  some 
fantastic,  fairy  knighthood  above  the  yew  hedges  that 
enclose  the  Dutch  Garden. 


The  dogs'  welcome  to  their  lost  masters  and  to  Loki 
<who,  of  course,  always  accompanies  his  family  wher- 
ever it  goes)  is  very  genuine,  and  rather  obstreperous. 
Bettine  runs  in  and  out  of  the  room,  up  and  down  the 
furniture,  as  if  in  joyful  pursuit  of  imaginary  rats. 
Arabella,  fond  and  foolish  as  ever,  tries  to  crawl  into 
everybody's  lap.  Being  about  the  size  of  a  young  calf, 
these  blandishments  are  not  encouraged.  Loki,  little 
Fur-man,  as  we  call  him,  has  a  different  way  of  expressing 
his  feelings.  True,  he  runs  about  and  yelps  rapture  to  the 
other  dogs  /  but  he  sobs  and  cries  like  a  child  on  reunion 
with  any  of  his  own,  and  half  swoons  with  rapture  in  our 
arms.  Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  the  love  in  his  heart  were 
too  big  for  his  little  flame-coloured  body,  and  must  burst 
it  in  the  endeavour  to  express  his  joy ! 
Loki  is  always  very  bumptious  and  pleased  with  himself 
in  London— being  Only -dog  there—but  he  cannot  bear 
132 


MISUNDERSTOOD  CANDOUR 

visitors  beyond  a  certain  limit.  Friends  who  come  to  tea 
are  very  much  touched  and  charmed  at  the  sight  of  the 
"dear  little  dog"  going  from  one  to  the  other,  sitting 
up  and  waving  his  paws  with  frantically  imploring 
gesture. 

"  Sweet  little  fellow— what  can  he  want  ? "  they  say,  and 
vainly  offer  tit-bits  from  the  tea-table.  Loki's  Grand- 
parents of  course  cannot  answer,  "  He  begs  you  to  go 
away  "—but  such  unfortunately  is  the  true  explanation. 
He  sneezes  with  rapture  when  the 
door  is  closed  on  the  last  depart- 
ing guest :  he  then  is  able  to  lead 
his  Grandmother  upstairs  for  the 
evening  romp.  His  Grandmamma 
has  weak  health,  which  is  no  doubt 
the  reason  why  he  has  fixed 
on  her  as  the  only  person 
who  understands  the  true 
inwardness  of  his  games. 
They  are  very  exhausting 
to  mere  humans,  and  he 
has  a  great 
deal  of  cat 
perversity  in 
his  composi- 
tion. He  spent 
the  whole  time 
of  a  recent 
dinner-  party 

sitting  upon  a  chair  in  full  view  of  the  company,  ceaselessly 
begging  with  prayerful  paws/  "Oh  do,  do  go  away!" 

133 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

As  usual  he  evoked  a  great  deal  of  undeserved  sympathy— 
meanwhile  his  tactful  family  held  their  peace. 
Bettine  is  growing  into  the  hobbledehoy  stage.  A  few 
weeks  ago  it  was  an  entrancing  spectacle  to  see  her 
playing  with  a  butterfly  on  the  moor.  It  was  a  yellow 
butterfly,  and  we  think  it  must  have  understood  the  rules 
of  catch-who-catch-can,  for  it  fluttered  along  just  ahead 
of  the  white  puppy's  nose.  It  was  a  little  vision  of  youth 
and  spring  to  snapshot  for  the  gallery  of  mental  memories. 
Loki's  female  relations,  who  are  given  to  transcendental 
discussions,  sometimes  wonder  whether  in  the  next  world 
they  will  be  vouchsafed  these  dear  small  pleasures  which 
make  up  the  best  of  life  down  here.  Unless  we  find  our 
animals  there,  there  will  certainly  be  something  missing. 
Surely  there  are  flowers  in  Heaven,  and  birds— why  not 
those  faithful  creatures  in  which  a  soul  seems  so  often 
struggling  into  birth  ? 

"  My  little  god,  my  little  god ! "  Maeterlinck  makes  the 
dog  say  to  his  master.  It  is  certain  that  man,  in  making 
the  dog  his  companion,  has  in  some  sort  endowed  him 
with  spiritual  faculties.  And  it  is  this  piteously  loving, 
confiding,  blindly  adoring,  dumb  creature  that  has  been 
selected  by  the  "  master  minds "  of  the  day  as  the  chief 
victim  for  the  horrors  of  scientific  research  ! 
Indeed,  that  humanity  should  thus  use  its  God-given 
dominion  over  the  helpless  lower  order  of  creation  is  an 
idea  so  hideous  that  it  can  only  have  emanated  from  the 
Powers  of  Darkness.  All  the  glib  arguments  that  this 
animal  torture  benefits  suffering  man  seem  to  us  as  much 
beside  the  mark  as  they  are  immoral.  Almost  every  crime 
can  be  justified  by  some  such  theoiy,  from  the  century-old 
134 


HEAVEN,  AND  OUR  BEASTS 

customs  of  child  exposure  in  China  to  the  modern 
Suffragette  outrages.  And  already  the  boundaries  on 
this  speculative  field  have  been  extended  so  as  to  include 
members  of  the  community  whose  defencelessness  or 
unimportance  preclude  unpleasant  reprisals.  How  many 
unfortunate  patients,  for  instance,  are  quite  unnecessarily 
operated  upon  in  our  great  hospitals?  Within  our 
narrow  personal  experience  we  have  known  cases  where 
life  has  been  absolutely  sacrificed  to  the  "  knife  mania/7 
Loki's  Grandmother,  who  feels  very  strongly  on  this 
subject,  has  always  wanted  to  write  an  article  giving 
chapter  and  verse  of  the  facts.  She  would  have  headed 
her  instructive  pages  with  the  title  "  Killing  no  Murder  "  / 
but  she  knows  no  magazine  would  publish  them  because 
of  the  storm  it  would  raise. 

During  a  recent  severe  illness  of  hers,  one  of  her  nurses, 
whom  she  used  to  call  her  "  ministering  devil/'  was  very 
fond  of  entertaining  her— at  moments  when  the  patient  was 
too  weak  for  speech— with  the  hopes  which  many  eminent 
men  of  science  now  entertain  of  being  able,  some  day,  to 
get  a  bill  passed  permitting  vivisection  on  the  condemned 
criminal ! 

Why  speak  of  such  abominations  in  these  pages  dedicated 
to  kind,  happy  days  and  sweet  garden  thoughts  ?  Only 
for  this  reason— that  it  is  the  policy  of  ignoring,  of 
cowardly  turning  away  from  unpleasant  subjects,  on  the 
part  of  the  great  majority  of  the  world  that  makes  the 
thing  possible  at  all. 


One  of  the  first  orders  we  give  a  new  gardener  is  that 

135 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

nothing  is  to  be  slain  at  Villino  Loki  except  the  Green 
Fly  and  the  Rose-Beetle.    The  birds  may  devour  all  our 
buds,  strip  up   our  crocuses,  and  denude  our 
raspberry  canes  <if  they  get  a  chance).     The   / 
mole  may  tunnel  and  burrow  and  raise  his  con-  ) 
vulsive  mounds  in  our  most 
cherished  lawn—and  that  is 
certainly  a  test  of  garden 
endurance— we  will  have  no 
traps  !   As  for  the  squirrels, 
we    are    afraid    we    have 
cleared  too    much  in  our 
wilderness   to  tempt  them 
now.   But  one  of  the  family 
actually  bought  little  green 
tables  in  order  to   spread 
repasts  for  them  near  their 
favourite  haunt. 
In  certain  wild  corners  of 
Dorsetshire    squirrels    be- 
come   almost    familiars  in 
such    households    as    are 
kindly  enough  to  set  forth  a  dainty,  now 
and  again,  for  the  frolicsome  company. 
One  understanding  person  of  our  acquaintance  was  given 
to  spreading  nuts  on  a  certain  window-sill,  where  every 
day  the  squirrels  used  to  come  and  fetch  them.    One 
morning  she  was  a  little  later  than  usual  in  this  attention  / 
on  coming  into  the  room,  she  was  startled  by  a  knocking 
on  the  window,  and  there  on  the  sill  sat  a  thing,  all  fur  and 
bright  eyes,  knocking  with  its  fairy  paw !    We  think  Loki 
136 


THE  WILD  PATCH 

has  a  good  deal  of  the  squirrel  in  him.  There  are  no 
end  of  nice  little  beasts  that  Loki  resembles.  Sometimes 
we  declare  that  he  is  least  of  all  dog. 

It  is  a  wonder  that  people  do  not  make  more  use  of  Broom 
in  their  Wild  Gardens.  We  have  seen  a  woodland  path 
where  great  bushes  of  alternate  white  and  yellow  Planta- 
genista  made  riot  in  the  sunshine  /  but  it  was  too 
regular  an  arrangement  to  harmonize  with  the 
scene.  A  wild  garden,  however  cultivated  in 
secret,  should  grow  as  naturally  as  pos- 
sible. It  is  a  rather  interesting  experiment  Jl 
to  fling  the  contents  of  a  packet  of  wild  '.  I 
flower  seeds  about  one's  banks  and 
unkept  spaces.  One  forgets  all  about 
it/  and,  behold!  after  the  second 
year,  there  are  all  kinds  of  engaging 
discoveries  to  be  made :  patches  of 
grey-blue  Campanulas,  bold  Fox- 
gloves, Loose-strife,  white  Cam- 
pions, all  the  more  delightful  be- 
cause forgotten  and]  unexpected 
and  fitting  into  their  surround- 
ings as  no  amount  of  planting 
in  can  make  them  do.  A  giant 
Mullein  has  just  made  itself  a 
home  under  the  fir-trees  and 
stands  as  if  it  had  always  been 
there,  boldly  and  defiantly  established  in  its 
proper  place  and  determined  to  maintain  it. 
We  caress  the  project  of  planting  tall  Ericas  and 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

Mediterranean  Heaths  on  the  borders  of  a  certain  rough 
path  /  and  in  between  the  Heather  we  shall  make  drifts  of 
Colchicum,  so  that  it  may  look  lovely  in  all  seasons.  We 
do  not  consider  that  Colchicum  is  properly  placed  in  the 
garden.  Its  summer  leaf  is  too  coarse,  and  it  is  hideous 
when  it  dies  off.  Mrs.  Earle  has  made  the  same  remark 
in  one  of  her  delightful  books. 


It  will  be  very  interesting  to  see  how  the  new  Roses  turn 
out.  A  good  many  were  ordered  on  the  strength  of  the 
catalogue  description,  from  three  different  rose  growers. 
Hybrid  Perpetuals  do  not  do  with  us/  neither  do  pure 
Teas  stand  our  cold,  otherwise  we  should  riot  in  "  Lady 
Hillingdon." 

"  YOU  never  can  go  wrong  with  a  Viscountess,"  said  his 
gardener  to  a  friend  of  ours. 

He  was  a  man  of  lightning  wit—as  all  lovers  of  "  Savoy  " 
operas  know. 

"  That  is  a  very  interesting  statement  of  yours,"  he  said 
in  that  brief,  unsmiling  manner  that  added  zest  to  his 
quaintness.  "I  have  been  given  to  understand  the  con- 
trary." 

We  can  go  wrong  with  a  Viscountess,  unfortunately,  and 
do.  As  we  have  said,  Hybrid  Perpetuals  do  not  behave 
well  with  us,  except,  perhaps,  that  model  of  excellence, 
Ulrich  Brunner.— Morals  are  a  question  of  climate  even 
with  roses. 

Loki's  Ma-Ma  <to  be  discursive— and  we  are  afraid  that  this 
chronicle  is  nothing  if  not  discursive)  was  a  great  favourite 
with  this  genius  of  mirth  above  mentioned,  who  made  the 
138 


VISCOUNTESS,  AND  OTHERS 

world  ring  with  honest  laughter  and  whose  heroic  death 
brought  many  tears,  at  least  to  Villino  Loki.  He  used 
to  call  her  "his  little  Lemur"  because  she  had  a  way 
of  clinging  to  her  mother,  in  her  first  debutante  days. 
Never  was  there  a  man  so  tender-hearted.  On  his 
estate  no  wild  thing  was  to  be  robbed  of  its  life :  not  even 
a  rabbit.  Loki's  Grandmother  used  to  be  a  little  timid  in 
his  company,  because  of  this  gift  of  swift  humour.  She 
never  felt  able  to  meet  him  on  his  own  ground— except 
once  when  in  a  windy  June  he  told  her  that  he  had  begun 
to  take  his  daily  swim  in  the  lake,  and  she  shuddered  at 
the  thought. 

"Cold!"  he  cried,  "not  a  bit  of  it!  Delightful!  YOU 
shall  take  a  dip  with  me  when  next  you  come  to  us." 
"  No,"  she  retorted— -and  it  was  the  only  time  in  all  their 
pleasant  intercourse  that  she  was  ever  brave  enough  to 
make  a  pass  with  him—"  No,  I  had  rather  get  into  hot 
water  with  you." 

Alas,  alas !   That  lake !  We  felt  the  menace  of  it  even  then. 
It  was  there,  trying  to  save  another,  he  found  his  death. 
It  has  often  been  said  that  real  wit  is  a  thing  of  the  past. 
Certainly  the  younger  generation's  idea  of  pleasantry  is  a 
kind  of  rough-and-tumble  fight  as  compared  to  the  neat, 
delicate  thrust-play  of  an  older  world.    But  this  friend  of 
ours  had  a  gift  quite  apart,  a  mixture  of  humour,  wit  and 
satire,  something  dry,  comic,  quaint,  peculiarly  his  own. 
"  It  reminds  me,"  said  a  clever  relation  of  his  once  in  our 
hearing,  "  of  an  old  wood  carving." 
We  understood  what  he  meant/  the  odd  angles,  the  sharp 
turns,  the  simplicity,  the   brusque  sincerity— and  withal 
how  richly  genial ! 

139 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

In  a  single  instance  one  of  us  beheld  him  almost  meet  his 

match,  and  that  in  a  most  unexpected    manner.      The 

pretty  fairy  lady,  his  wife,  happened  to   comment  with 

surprise  upon  the  fact  that  a  woman  who  had  been  very 

rude  to  her  should  have  attempted  to  greet  her  upon  a 

recent  occasion  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

"  She  actually  held  out  her  hand  ! "  she  concluded. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  observed  her  lord,  in  his  serious  way, 

"  that  is  the  member  most  usually  extended/' 

To  the  surprise  of  the  whole  table,  a  shy  lady  on  his  left, 

who  had  not  yet  uttered  a  word,  said  in  a  small  meek  voice  : 

"  She  might  have  put  out  her  tongue  ! " 

We  never  met  that  shy  woman  again.     We  should  like  to. 

"  Please  will  you  keep  your  Pickle  out  of  my  preserves/7 

he  wrote  to  a  neighbour  whose  dog  was  given  to  roving. 

The  neighbour  bore  a  name  well  known  in  grocers'  lists. 

For  two  days  the  wind  has  been  blowing  over  the  moors 
from  the  east.  The  sound  of  it  through  the  trees  on  the 
hill-side  is  like  the  roar  of  a  torrent  /  and  now  and  again  it 
is  like  the  wash  of  waves  upon  the  beach.  A  very 
unseasonable  wind,  but  it  makes  a  grave  and  beautiful 
music.  Fortunately  the  Dutch  Garden  with  its  wealth 
of  Tulips  is  sheltered,  or  there  would  scarce  be  left  an 
unbruised  petal. 

People  are  very  much  struck  by  our  beds  of  Myosotis, 
surmounted  by  the  swaying  chalices  of  the  Darwins.  The 
simple  plan  of  the  blue  carpet  for  these  slender  May 
Queens  seems  to  them  very  wonderful  and  new. 
"Oh,  look!  What's  happened?  Is  it  real?  It's  like 
fairyland ! "  cried  a  visitor  yesterday  to  a  sympathetic  sister. 
140 


OAKS  AND  BLUE  GLADES 

—Such  kind  people  to  walk  about  the  garden  with !  They 
have  themselves  a  mysterious  Oak  wood,  falling  away 
beneath  their  lawns,  that  is  now  carpeted  with  Bluebells : 
a  place  to  sit  and  dream  in.  Oaks  are  trees  full  of  romance, 
we  think.  They  tell  long  stories  out  of  the  past,  and  speak 
of  Shakespeare  and  the  glories  of  England,  and  their  glades 
are  for  ever  peopled  with  brave  figures  of  history  or 
fiction. 


141 


XX 

BRECHKS,  on  the  other  hand,  have  a  kind  of  fairy  glory 
about  them  that  does  not  seem  to  belong  to  our  land.  We 
drove  through  a  beech  forest  the  other  day/  the  road  went  up 
zigzagging  to  the  top  of  a  steep  hill,  and  one  looked  down 
upon  the  Beech  glades,  all  golden  green  in  a  fierce  sun- 
burst between  two  showers.  And  they  were  still  dripping 
with  the  rain.  It  was  wonderful,  but  not  English,  distinc- 
tively English,  like  that  Oak  wood.  It  was  a  Mdrchen- 
Wold.  Siegfried  might  have  strode  through  it,  blowing  his 
horn:  youth  incarnate,  leaping  out  of  Mime's  cave  to 
conquer  the  world.  On  the  inspiration  of  such  a  haunt 
was  the  Wold-Mustek  conceived. 

If  we  had  a  dwelling  for  every  different  mood,  a  log-house 
at  the  top  of  that  Beech  ravine  would  suit  us  very  well  in 
a  sunny  month  of  May.  Between  the  great  smooth  boles 
of  the  trees  we  would  want  to  peep  out  at  the  flat  wide 
land,  with  the  rich  far  woods  below,  misty  in  the  sun- 
shine/ and  the  distant  moors  as  with  the  bloom  of  the 
grape  upon  them.  We  would  not  want  flowers/  nothing 
but  that  heavenly  green  of  the  young  leaves  against  the 
blue  /  and  the  whispering  and  the  swaying  of  the  boughs 
to  cradle  our  souls/  and  the  thrushes  and  blackbirds  to 
sing  the  dawn  in  and  the  twilight  out!  How  holy  and 
innocent  and  loving  would  one's  mind  become  after  a 
week  in  that  log  hut—a  week  alone,  or  with  one's  best 
beloved ! 

After  we  came  out  from  that  Beech  wood  we  took  a 
wrong  turning,  and  landed  ourselves  far  out  on  the  downs 
instead  of  back  to  our  moors.  Now,  for  another  mood— 
142 


THE  BEECH 


• 


MAY  AND  SEPTEMBER  MOODS 

say,  a  warm,  still,  serene  September  mood—why  not  a 
small  stone  house  in  a  high  hollow  of  those  downs,  miles 
removed  from  any  other  human  habitation  ?  Just  a  stone 
house  dumped  in  the  hollow— pale  grey,  so  as  not  to 
offend  the  eye  in  that  stretch  of  bleached 
vastness,  with  a  group  of  Thorns  at  the  back 
and  nothing  else,  not  even  a  path  /  only  a 
long  way  off,  the  vision  of  a  white  ribbon 
of  road,  looping  and  twisting,  running  to 
the  sea.  No  flowers  but  the  little  wild,  stiff, 
aromatic  things  that  push  up  through  the 
short  turf.  Overhead,  one  or  two  quite 
round,  white  clouds,  sailing  along  the 
blue,  caught  by  some  high  current  that 
hardly  touches  us  below— the  kind  of 
cloud  that  you  see  in  an  old  German 
print.  And  all  about,  as  far  as  the 
gaze  can  encompass,  nothing  but  the 
dip  and  rise,  the  scoop  and]  billow  of 
the  downs/  and  the  hollows,  blue  on 
that  wonderful  sun-steeped,  warm, 
yet  bleached  expanse.  And  the 
shadows  of  the  clouds,  running 
along  across  it/  and  perhaps  a 
lark's  song,  somewhere  not  too 
close,  beaten  back  to  earth  from 
an  unseen  height  of  joy/  and 
far,  far  away,  the  tinkle  of  a  sheep-bell !  Would  not 
one's  soul  expand  with  the  grand  silence  and!the  glorious 
wide  spaces?  One  would  not  want  to  hear  or  behold 
the  sea,  only  to  taste  the  salt  of  it  in  every  breath.  Now 

143 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

does  it  not  seem  that  up  there,  sitting  outside  that  stone 
house,  you  would  touch  the  prehistoric  past  1  Or,  rather, 
that  the  great  eternity,  the  never-dying  essences  of  things, 
would  sink  into  your  little  passing  bit  of  humanity  ?  Your 
soul  would  mirror  all  infinity.  —  A  place  to  turn 
Buddhist  in ! 

There  was  a  pink  Villino  on  the  unusual  side 
of  Rome.    YOU  looked  in  upon  it  through  high 
gates  into  a  tangle  of  garden, 
where   everything  seemed  to 
riot.    It  had   an  odd,  incon- 
gruous tower  from  which  you 
could  surely  have  a  vast  pro- 
spect  of  the    plains    of  the 
Campagna    and    the    Alban 
mountains  beyond.  There  was 
1  an  archway  in  one  side  of  it 
through  which  one  certainly 
drove  into  some  inner  court- 
yard of  delight.    That   little 
habitation   you  might    covet 
with  a  covetousness  that  gave 
you  a  pain  in  your  heart.    We  did. 
And  outside  Florence,  too,  there  was 
another  small  house.  It  had  been  once 
a  farm.    A  certain  great  lady  had  her 
spring  quarters  there,  liking  the  con- 
trast, we  suppose,  between  that  and 
the  old  Scotch  castle  where  Fate  had  planted 
her.    We  drove  to  tea  with  her  there  <early 
May  it  was)  through  the  hot,  wind-swept, 
144 


A  TUSCAN  VILLINO 

noisy  Florentine  streets,  It  was  just  the  time  of  year 
when  the  Iris  was  flooding  the  land  with  its  penetrating 
and  yet  not  sickly  sweetness.  There  never  was  any  scent 
so  perfect.  And  the  small  pink  roses  were  flinging  them- 
selves over  the  tops  of  tall  garden  walls,  as  if  the  prodigal 
Italian  springtide  had  been  at  its  full  and  left  a  foam  of 
bloom  behind  it.  Up,  up  the  mountain  road,  between 
uncompromising  walls  and  out  into  the  freer  country— 
and  there  was  the  farmhouse !  Its  garden  has  left  an  odd 
blurred  impression  on  our  minds :  vaguely— a  path  bordered 
by  lush  grass  and  gay  with  Apple  trees— there  was  a  storm 
brewing,  and  all  was  black  overhead  /  under  the  weird  sky 
the  delicate  blossoms  took  a  curious  vividness  like  minute 
paintings. 

One  had  to  go  across  a  red-brick  kitchen  to  get  to  the 
stairs  that  led  to  the  two  long,  quaint,  cool  rooms,  in 
the  farther  of  which  the  hostess  sat. 
She  had  kept  the  charm  of  simplicity  there.  Plain  white 
walls  and  rather  empty  spaces,  with  bits  of  Italian  black 
oak,  and  a  painting  or  two  /  a  vase  of  lilac,  a  dim  missal 
warmth  of  colour  in  the  Persian  carpets  that  lay  on  the 
bricks— that  was  the  picture.  A  very  pleasant  impression 
those  rooms  made,  with  the  old  great  lady  in  her  high-backed 
chair,  clad  in  flowing  black  satin  and  with  a  white  lace 
that  framed  a  face  as  fresh  as  the  apple  blossom  without. 
The  storm  broke  as  we  sat  there.  She  was  nervous,  and 
so  were  some  of  her  visitors/  therefore  sne  had  the 
wooden  shutters  closed.  Perhaps  she  was  not  really 
frightened,  for  she  was  as  sturdy  a  Scotchwoman  as  ever 
we  beheld,  and  her  bright  blue  eye  was  stern  in  spite  of  her 
affability.  Perhaps  she  only  compassionated  the  nerves  of 

k  145 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

her  guests.  Be  it  as  it  may,  we  sat  an  hour  while  the 
thunder  rolled  bars  of  sound  over  our  heads  and  the  wind 
whistled  and  the  rain  hissed  and  roared  down  the  valley, 
and  the  lightning  kept  a  perpetual  play  between  the  chinks 
of  the  shutters.  And  though  Loki's  Grandma  generally 
gibbers  during  a  thunderstorm,  she  never  enjoyed  an  hour 
more,  so  delightful  was  her  hostess  and  so  fascinating  the 
sense  of  isolation  and  strangeness,  being  thus  shut  away 
amid  the  fury  of  the  elements  in  a  little  Italian  farmhouse ! 
And  when  the  tempest  was  grumbling  itself  off  in  the 
distance,  the  shutters  were  all  thrown  back  and  the  doors 
on  the  square  wooden  balcony  opened.  The  air  rushed 
in,  vivifying,  full  of  the  scent  of  the  earth  and  charged  with 
ozone  and  perfumes.  We  went  out  on  the  dripping 
balcony,  and  never,  oh!  never  can  any  of  us  forget  the 
vision !  For  below  the  casa  the  land  dropped  away,  and 
it  was  all  vineyards  /  and  they  rose  and  dipped  and  rose 
again,  a  sight  no  one  has  ever  beheld  out  of  Italy.  And 
beyond  were  the  mountains/  and  the  whole  wide  valley 
was  filled  with  mist  and  all  of  it  was  stained  rose  and 
crimson  from  the  sunset. 

You  may  not  believe  it,  you  who  read  it,  but  it  is  a  fact 
that  the  valley  was  carmine  up  to  the  balcony,  indescrib- 
ably shot  with  the  fires  of  the  West—a  steaming  cauldron 
of  glory !  That  is  the  kind  of  vision  one  carries  gratefully 
to  one's  grave. 

For  a  long  time  we  vowed  that  our  old  age  would  see  us, 
like  the  Scotch  Dowager,  steeping  our  being  in  the  joys  of 
Spring  in  a  farmhouse  outside  Florence.— But  now  we 
don't  know.  Viilino  Loki  has  laid  hold  of  us  /  it  is  our 
real  home,  the  rest  are  but  dreams. 
146 


b 


LANDSCAPE  ECSTASy 

The  Master  of  the  House  saw  this  morning  a  tiny 

Golden-crested  Wren  fluttering  from  stem  to  stem  of  the 

tall  Darwin  Tulips  to  pick 

at    the    Forget  •  me  •  nots 

below/  and  every  time  it       ;^ 

pecked  it  twittered    with        £ 

joy,  so  light  a  thing  that   *V" 

it   scarcely    swayed    the 

slender    stalks  —  a    fairy 

vision. 


The  Hemicycle,  where  the 
grass  must  be  allowed  to 
grow  lush,  because  of  the 
bulbs,  until  the  leaves 
"  ripen  off/7  is  none  the 
less  attractive  on  that 
account.  There  are  eight 
little  square  beds,  each 
containing  a  weeping  stan- 
dard-" Dorothy  Perkins  " 
or  "  Stella  "  ~  thickly 
planted  below  with  Forget- 
me-nots  and  Bybloemen 
Tulips.  Between  the  beds 
there  is  a  large  red  pot  also 
filled  with  Forget-me-nots 
and  Bybloemen.  The  Tu- 
lips  have  a  kind  of  wild  grace,  coming  out  of  the  long  grass/ 
and  Myosotis,  darling  little  creature,  accommodates  herself 

147 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

in  every  surrounding.  There  is  a  pretty,  stemmed  fountain, 
or  rather  bird-bath  /  in  its  centre,  where,  in  a  basin  shaped 
like  a  spreading  lotus  flower,  a  sturdy  putto  astride  a  dolphin 
blows  soundless  blasts.  This  half-circle  of  vivid  beauty, 
with  the  young  green  grass,  the  swaying  Tulips,  the  blue  of 
the  Forget-me-nots  against  the  moor  is  good  to  look 
upon. 

Beyond  the  Hemicycle,  the  Azalea  Glade  runs  down  now 
in  lines  of  orange-rose  and  creamy-salmon,  bordered  too 
with  Forget  me-nots.  Up  against  it  the  cool  silver  of  a 
great  Service-tree  comes  just  where  it  makes  a  perfect 
background/  and  beyond  that  again  the  rivulets  of  blue  in 
the  Reserve  Garden  lie  deep  below. 
This  is  the  hour  of  our  garden's  glory.  No  Delphinium 
muster,  no  spreading  garlands  of  Roses,  can  equal  the 
exquisite  freshness,  the  fulness  of  life  of  this  May  world. 
With  the  Brooms,  white  and  yellow  /  with  the  pink  foam 
of  the  Floribunda  trees,  the  incomparable  gold  and  green 
of  the  Beech  and  Birch,  one  wants  to  put  one's  arms  round 
the  little  place  and  kiss  it. 

"  So  much  work,  so  long  and  great  a  travail  of  nature/7 
said  a  friend  to  us  to-day  /  "  ever  since  November,  prepar- 
ing for  this  wonderful  revelation  of  bloom  .  .  .  and  all  for  so 
short  a  span !  All  this  beauty  scarce  reaches  its  climax 
but  it  is  already  on  the  wane ! " 

Perhaps  it  is  to  give  us  an  idea  of  the  permanence  of  what 
"  eye  hath  not  seen  "  beyond,  that  its  glories  are  described 
in  terms  of  jewels/  and  yet  so  perversely  is  one  made  that 
it  is  the  very  fragility  that  endears  here  below—a  sense 
of  the  fleeting  moment  that  gives  ecstasy  its  finest  edge. 
No,  this  limited  humanity  of  ours  cannot  conceive  the 
148 


TRANSIENT  COLOUR  GLORIES 

infinitude.  It  is  only  with  those  perceptions  which  tran- 
scend the  senses  that  one  gets  a  gleam,  a  hint,  a  possibility 
of  once  understanding.  The  restless  mind  of  man  for  ever 
demands  and  creates  change,  but  the  soul  aspires  to 
immutability. 


149 


XXI 

THE  last  day  of  May.  After  the  usual  "  contrariness  " 
of  life  we  have  spent  the  hot  span  in  London,  and  returned 
here  to  find  that  ungenial  norVest  wind  blowing  in  upon 
us  apparently  over  the  same  icebergs  as  a  month  ago. 
We  think  with  wails  of  regret  of  the  long,  golden,  balmy 
garden-days  we  missed/  of  the  full  glory  of  the  Azaleas/ 
of  those  splendours  of  Rose  Tulips  which  we  should  have 
enjoyed,  radiant  in  the  sunshine,  instead  of  seeing  them 
yawn  their  lives  away  in  a  hot  town  drawing-room.  And 
the  Florentina  Alba  Irises,  those  delicate,  fragrant,  stately 
things  that  look  as  if  they  were  compounded  of  cobweb 
and  spun  crystal  and  moonlit  snow— it  takes  but  a  day  to 
show  them  in  their  beauty  and  another  to  wilt  them— we 
have  missed  their  lovely  hour  too,  of  course.  On  long, 
long  stems,  the  Iris  Siberica  are  congregating  a  little  grove 
of  buds  in  the  Blue  Border/  only  two  curving  purple 
darlings  having  outrun  the  rest.  We  shall  miss  them,  for 
the  fates  have  decreed  that  we  are  to  leave  the  Earthly 
Paradise  in  a  day  or  two  once  more,  and  that  for  the  flat 
horizons  of  Lancashire.  Well,  the  best  of  the  Spring,  early 
and  late,  is  over,  and  we  do  not  grudge  these  intermediary 
days  so  much,  though  we  wonder  how  the  bedding  out  will 
get  on  without  our  stimulating  presence.  We  shall  not 
even  have  a  finger  in  the  "  Cherry-Pie/'  Lengthy  plans 
will  have  to  be  made.  The  "Miss  Wilmott"  Verbena 
must  replace,  by  their  delicate  rose,  the  blue  of  the  Myosotis 
carpet  as  well  as  the  wonders  of  the  many-hued  Darwins. 
in  the  two  centre  beds  of  the  Dutch  Garden.  And  in  the 
border  beds  we  project  a  fine  gathering  of  Antirrhinums 
150 


SUMMER 


END  OF  SPRING,  SUMMER  PLANS 

shading  from  crimson,  through  Firefly  and  Rose-Doree,  to 
palest  pink. 

The  terrace  immediately  under  the  house  runs,  according 
to  our  invariable  summer  programme,  to  cool  colours  and 
sweet  scents.  Under  the  dining-room  and  drawing-room 
windows,  besides  the  transient  prospect  of  the  White 
Lilies,  there  are  to  bloom  <until  the  frost  lays  waste) 
Heliotrope  and  Nicotiana,  with  pale  pink  Ivy-leaf 
Geranium  to  contrast  with  the  mauve  and  purple,  and 
blue  Lobelia  to  rim  the  outer  border  of  White  Pinks. 
Against  the  terrace  wall,  between  the  tall  Madonna  Lilies, 
which  show  good  promise,  and  the  Polyantha  Roses,  red 
and  white,  with  the  thick  edging  of  "  Mrs.  Sinkins,"  Lobelia 
and  Petunia  shall  spread.  The  pots  will  bear  their  cus- 
tomary summer  burthen  of  rose  Ivy-leaf  Geraniums,  with 
Lobelia  too,  and  the  Zonals.  We  like  them  to  flaunt 
against  the  moor. 

Below,  in  the  Blue  Border,  the  Delphiniums  and  the 
Anchusas,  the  great  old-established  White  Rose  bushes, 
the  steel  blue  Thistle,  must  make  what  show  they  can 
over  the  annuals— Nigella,  Gypsophila  and  Nemophila— 
not  forgetting  the  kind  Campanulas,  so  dear,  so  faithful, 
so  hardy !  In  fine  contrast,  on  the  other  side  of  the  grass 
walk,  the  Dorothy  Perkins  hedge  will  spread  its  vivid 
masses,  and  fling  out  its  irrepressible  garlands  over  the 
border  of  bright  blue  Nemophila  we  have  had  the 
audacity  to  sow. 

And  below,  in  the  Hemicycle,  the  colours  are  to  grow 
cool  again,  with  Heliotrope  between  the  Lilies,  the 
Lavenders,  and  the  Monthly  Roses,  and  Fortune's  Yellow 
and  Reve  d'Or  running  up  the  supporting  wall. 

151 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

The  beauty  of  the  ancient  woods  in  that  Lancashire 
home  from  which  we  have  just  returned  lingers  in  our 
memory.  Outside  the  park  walls,  the  flat  fields  lie  that 
would  have  a  charm  of  their  own  if  the  encroachment  of 
the  peculiarly  unlovely  brick  and  mortar  prosperity  of  the 
district  did  not  catch  the  eye  on  almost  every  side  /  but 
within  there  is  a  sense  of  wonderful  peace  and  mystery, 
in  the  old,  old  woods  with  their  Rhododendron  glades. 
The  astonishing  height  of  the  trees 
seems  to  keep  modernity  at  bay,  and 
tells  stories  still  of  the  simple,  proud, 
God-fearing  race  which  has  be- 
come so  associated  with  the  very 
spot  of  earth  that  has  borne 
and  nurtured  them  for 
many  centuries,  that,  like 
one  or  two  other  families 
in  England,  their  name  in 
absolute  legality  is  not 
complete  without  the  ter- 
ritorial appendage. 


We  hear  every  day  that  "the 
Squire"  is  a  being  of  the  past. 
We  know  that  every  effort  of 
present-day     legislation    is    to 
abolish  what  was  once  the  strength 
of  England/  what  might  still  be  its 
strength,  if  the  restless  and  destructive 
spirit    of  the   age  would   permit   it, 


THE  DISAPPEARING  SQUIRE 

The  young  owner  of  those  old  lands  <who  has  just  been 
our  host)  is  one  who  will,  we  hope,  keep  up  the  traditions— 
so  fast  dying  out,  or  being  stamped  out— a  little  longer.  He 
is,  as  his  grandfather  was,  the  centre  of  his  own  people, 
the  shepherd  of  his  flock.  Not  quite  to  the  same  extent, 
perhaps :  we  do  not  suppose,  for  instance,  that  he  is  both 
maker  and  depository  of  their  wills,  or  that  he  is  sum- 
moned to  every  tenant's  deathbed  as  was  that  kindly, 
sturdy  old  Lancastrian  his  grandsire. 
"Hurry,  Jimmy,  hurry !"  the  afflicted  wife  and  mother 
would  say.  "  Run  oop  to  the  Hall  and  tell  Squoire  to 
coom  along  quick,  for  feyther's  at  his  last ! " 
Neither  would  he  undertake  to  mend  the  broken  leg/  or 
patch  up  the  conjugal  quarrel.  But  the  young  Squire  will 
still  hear  such  a  phrase  as  this  at  election  time :  "  What  we 
wants  to  know  is  which  way  Squoire's  voting  ?  Squoire's 
man  is  the  man  for  we ! " 

He  will  let  his  cottages  at  eighteen  pence  a  week  /  and  the 
larger  the  family  is  the  smaller  will  be  the  rent.  And  the 
claims  of  the  tenant  will  be  attended  to  before  his  own. 
He  seems  as  much  part  of  them  as  they  are  part  of  him. 
Has  anyone  ever  heard  of  a  labourer  on  a  large  estate 
being  in  destitution  ?  We  never  have.  Our  great  land- 
owners do  more  to  provide  for  their  own  dependents  and 
keep  down  pauperism  than  any  frantic  legislator  or  whole- 
sale philanthropist.  But  the  system  is  to  go/  we  have 
the  best  authority  for  it,  the  authority  of  those  in  power. 
God  help  England  and  England's  poor  peasants,  say  we, 
when  they  have  their  way ! 

We  can  speak  with  examples  under  our  eyes.    Every  time 
a  bit  of  an  estate  is  sold,  hereabouts,  the  cottages  thereon 

153 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

are  purchased  by  the  local  grocer  or  butcher :  and  up  goes 
the  rent  that  had  been  three  and  six  or  four  shillings  a  week 
to  seven  and  six  and  ten  shillings.  Here,  where  we  live,  there 
are  practically  no  important  landowners,  and  what  is  the 
result  ?  Not  the  most  miserable  cottage  to  be  had  under 
seven  and  six  a  week,  a  rent  liable  to  be  raised  at  a 
moment's  notice.  The  butcher,  the  baker,  these  are  the 
"  landlords/'  and  the  rent  they  exact  is  exactly  what  they 
know  they  can  extract  out  of  the  unfortunate  tenant,  in 
the  present  state  of  cottage  scarcity.  We  ourselves  have 
spent  weeks  in  striving  to  secure  a  roof  for  a  wretched 
woman  with  three  little  children,  whose  husband  had 
attempted  to  murder  her  and  after  her  escape  had  danced 
upon  all  her  furniture,  and  burnt  the  remnants.  We  had 
to  engage  a  cottage  three  months  in  advance,  and  then 
the  rent  was  eight  and  six  a  week!  She  was  a  stupid 
poor  goose  of  a  woman,  who  couldn't  do  anything  for 
her  living  except  an  occasional  day's  charing  or  rough 
washing.  Of  course  we  ought  to  have  let  her  go  to  the 
workhouse/  but  we  didn't.  We  guaranteed  the  rent  in- 
stead and  took  in  the  eldest  boy  as  an  unneeded  garden 
assistant.  <He  is  rather  like  a 
garden  slug,  so  we  thought  he 


154 


ought  to  be  at  home 
in  the  borders) !  The 
other  day  a  local 
tradesman  raised  the 
rent  of  a  cottage 


THE  REFRESHING  FRUIT 

sixpence  a  week  upon  the  hard-working  mother  of  a  large 
family,  who  occasionally  comes  in  "  to  oblige  "  at  Villino 
Loki  /  and  when  she  remonstrated  he  humorously  remarked 
that  Mr.  Lloyd  George  was  "  driving  him  to  it ! " 
There  is  a  proverb  that  "  good  wine  needs  no  bush/''  The 
Chancellor's  efforts  to  convince  his  victims  of  the  comfort 
of  the  plaster  which  is  blistering  them  are  almost  pathetic. 
But  surely  it  is  another  proof,  if  one  were  needed,  of  the 
weakness  of  his  cause.  A  local  laundry  owner  has  been 
receiving  six  pounds  a  week,  lecturing,  in  Devonshire  of 
all  places,  on  the  blessedness  of  the  Act  as  experienced  by 
himself  and  staff.  One  of  our  district  nurses,  a  delightful 
sturdy  North  Country  woman,  was  "  approached  "  as  to 
whether  she  would  undertake,  for  a  consideration,  to  use 
her  persuasiveness  with  her  patients  and  make  them  see 
how  much  they  were  benefited  by  the  stamp  tax.  She 
declined  with  a  heat  that  may  have  astonished  the  emis- 
sary. 

It  must  indeed  be  a  little  difficult  to  make,  say,  a  struggling 
greengrocer  understand  the  debt  of  gratitude  he  owes  to 
the  law  which  constrains  him  to  pay  fourpence  a  week  for 
the  assistant  he  can  so  ill  afford  as  it  is  and  mulct  that  discon- 
tented youth  of  threepence !  More  especially  when  baker 
and  grocer  charge  him  more  to  cover  their  own  losses. 
The  obvious  remedy,  says  Mr.  Lloyd  George,  is  for  the 
greengrocer  to  raise  the  prices  in  his  town !  He  does  /  and 
somehow  it  doesn't  work.  Being  in  a  poor  district  and  all 
his  patrons  being  poor,  they  buy  less  from  him,  and  he 
buys  less  from  them. 

"  But  look  at  the  comfort  in  sickness !  "    It  is  tiresome,  it 
almost  seems  like  putting  bad  will  into  it,  that  the  green- 

155 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

grocer's  wife  should  develop  consumption  before  the  first 
stone  of  any  sanatorium  is  ready ! 


Now,  that  prosperous,  contented  class,  the  labourer  on 
the  great  estate,  a  man  who  lives  on  his  lord's  lands,  if 
not  rent  free,  very  nearly  so,  with  wood  and  garden 
produce,  potatoes,  milk  and  what  not,  and  steady  employ- 
ment all  the  year  round,  he  is  to  be  benefited—save  the 
mark !  A  "  minimum  wage/'  cheap  housing,  the  fixed 
hours,  the  sacred  half-holiday,  it  sounds  so  plausible ! 
The  propagandist  is  volubly  at  work.  "No  wonder/' 
as  the  young  Squire  we  have  recently  visited  once  rue- 
fully said  to  us,  "my  decent,  contented,  God-fearing 
villagers  were  turned  in  a  couple  of  hours  into  shrieking, 
blaspheming  lunatics  by  such  a  gospel,  preached  with 
forcible  arguments  in  the  public-house." 
Of  course  they  will  get  their  demands.  Striking,  with 
"  peaceful  picketing,"  generally  gets  its  way,  even  if  not 
backed  up  by  Government  emissaries  and  the  glorious 
visions  flash-lighted  by  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer. 
But  what  will  be  the  result?  Half  the  amount  of  em- 
ployment on  the  estates  of  those  who  can  still  afford  to 
keep  them,  and  no  all-the-year-round  engagements.  When 
the  work  is  slack  the  over-paid  and  inimical  labourer  will 
naturally  be  discharged.  We  say  inimical,  for  how  can 
friendly  relations  be  maintained  if  the  old  solidarity  is 
destroyed  ?  This,  of  course,  is  what  is  aimed  at  /  and 
the  quack  remedy,  the  patent  pill  alluringly  held  aloft,  is— 
State  ownership  of  land  !  The  land  is  to  be  managed  like 
the  Workhouse,  the  Prison,  and  the  Reformatory,  of 
156 


A  HAVEN  OF  REST 

which,  we  are  all  aware,  the  British  State  makes  such  a 
brilliant  success.  We  know  how  the  poor  love  the 
Workhouse,  and  how  happy  they  are  in  it  /  yet  one  can 
scarcely  take  up  a  police  report  without  finding  some 
desperate  pauper  sentenced  for  revolt.  Oh,  no  doubt  it 
will  be  a  Merry  England  when  these  disinterested  and 
dashing  tinkers  get  their  way. 

We  have  known,  in  parenthesis,  a  pauper  establishment, 
run  by  voluntary  effort,  in  which  a  hundred  and  fifty  old 
men  and  ninety  old  women  were  kept  happy  and  con- 
tented by  a  handful  of  soft-voiced  nuns.  No  need  to  call 
in  the  policeman,  in  Portobello  Road  /  for  there  old  age  is 
reverenced  at  once  and  pitied,  and  the  double  aspect  of 
the  most  natural  of  all  the  commandments  is  put  into 
everyday  practice,  so  unobtrusively  and  simply  that  no 
one  can  guess  how  heroically. 

But  the  religious  question  will  soon  be  treated  in  the  same 
way  as  the  land  question  /  so  no  invidious  comparisons  need 
be  drawn.  Little  boys  and  little  girls  are  to  be  taught  that 
the  State  is  henceforth  to  take  the  place  of  God  in  their  infant 
minds.  How  comfortable  and  warm  a  creed !  How  it 
will  strengthen  their  character  for  living,  and  ease  the 
thoughts  of  the  dying.  There  is  no  God:  but  there  is  a 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  and  a  dashing  gentleman  at 
the  Home  Office,  you  have  not  been  created  or  re- 
deemed,  little  boy !  We  have  no  prayers  to  teach  you. 
There  are  no  divine  commandments  which  you  need  obey 
-—naturally,  since  there  is  no  Divine  Father.  There  are 
no  sacraments  to  sustain  and  elevate  your  soul—for  little 
boys  and  girls  have  no  souls  !  But  cheer  ye :  you  were 
evolved  by  a  natural  process,  and  the  State  is  here  to 

157 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

cradle  and  instruct  you  and  to  make  life  beautiful  for  you. 
Behold,  dear  children,  the  Book  of  the  Laws.  These  laws 
which  you  are  bound  to  keep— unless,  of  course,  you  go 
on  strike,  become  a  Suffragette,  or  organize  political 
vote  catching.  And  this  is  a  picture  of  a  Jail  for  people  who 
are  so  blind  as  to  refuse  Insurance  blessings  /  behold  that 
inspired  countenance.  That  is  the  head  of  the  Government ! 
And  for  Sunday  amusements  there  is  the  Cinema— the 
Crippen  case,  dear  children/  the  Houndsditch  Burglary 
and  the  Train  Smash.  .  .  .  And  when  the  new  theories 
have  developed  and  matured,  there  will  be  no  such  thing 
as  private  property  in  anything  to  constrain  the  free  mind 
of  emancipated  man— A  house  of  your  own,  a  wife  to 
yourself !— fie ! 

"  Surely,  surely/'  said  a  young  Liberal  M.P.,  "  no  sanely 
thinking  person  would  continue  to  advise  religious  educa* 
tion  in  the  schools.  What  is  the  inevitable  result—see  the 
case  in  your  own  Church  "  <he  was  speaking  to  a  Catholic) 
"  the  law  commands  one  thing,  and  the  Church  another ! 
Take  divorce,  for  instance.  Surely,  surely— " 
"  Dear  me/'  said  the  Catholic.  "  We  had  not  looked  at  it 
in  that  light.  The  laws  man-made  are,  then,  above  the 
laws  God-made  1 " 

''Surely,  surely  you  would  not  teach  little  children  to 
disobey  a  law  of  the  land  made  for  their  benefit  ? " 
We  ventured  to  say  that  the  ten  commandments  had 
forestalled— 

His  pitying  smile  arrested  us  /  so  infinitely  was  he  above 
the  ten  commandments. 


158 


XXII 

YESTERDAY  Lola's  family  motored 'energetically  some 
fifty  miles  and  back  to  a  garden  party  near  London. 
A  wonderful  house  with  wonderful  lawns  and  gardens-^ 
one  feels  that  the  hideous  tide  of  brick  and  mortar  must 
inevitably  sweep  over  and  destroy  it  before  another 
generation  comes  and  goes,  so  that  there  is  a  kind  of 
pathos  in  its  very  beauty. 

Out  of  the  unlovely  mean  streets  along  which  the  tram- 
line runs  its  abominable  way,  one  turns  off  into  the  cool 
country  road.  The  long  avenue  is  bordered  by  wide  fields 
where,  as  we  passed  yesterday,  the  new-mown  grass  was 
lying  in  silver  furrows.  The  country  is  quite  flat,-  but  the 
richness  of  the  green,  the  incidents  of  lake  and  timber, 
give  it  a  placid  English  fairness  of  its  own. 
The  Lady  of  Villino  Loki  went  with  a  keen 
eye  to  garden  hints,  and  her  first  thrill  was  a 
Honeysuckle  screen  in  the  little  garden  of  the 
second  lodge.  Such  a  Honeysuckle  screen ! 
It  had  once,  she  supposes,  been  an  arch,  for 
it  rose  to  a  kind  of  gable  peak  in  the  centre, 
but  it  was  filled  in  either  by  design  or  natural 
luxuriance  till  it  was  a  complete  mass  of  bloom, 
a  solid  wall  of  blossom.  Never  had  she  beheld 
such  a  thing  before.  She  wants  Honeysuckle 
at  the  Villino,  as  she  said  already,  and  she  is 
fired  with  fresh  enthusiasm.  Why  should  she 
not  have  a  hedge  of  Honeysuckle,  not  too  far 
from  the  house  itself?  It  is  settled.  She  will  buy 
fifty  in  November  and  try. 

159 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

The  weather,  which  had  been  misty,  thundery  and  un- 
promising, cleared  just  upon  our  arrival  at  the  great 
"  Adam  "  house.  The  lawns  were  in  their  perfection,  the 
shade  of  the  Cedars  was  cut  out  on  the  sun-golden  turf,  the 
massed  flowers  were  vivid  against  their  cunningly  devised 
backgrounds.  Naturally  Villino  Loki,  even  in  its  wildest 
dreams,  cannot  emulate  this  great  and  carefully  cherished 
place/  but  one  can  find  practical  suggestions  here  and 
there.  We  cannot  mass  rare  and  golden-hued  Maples 
over  a  broad  band  of  yellow  Calceolarias  anywhere  on 
our  terraced  lawns  /  but  it  is  very  instructive  to  see  the 
management  of  certain  herbaceous  borders,  where  three  or 
four  large  pillars  of  Rambler  Roses  alternate  with  mauve 
and  silver-leaved  Japanese  Maples  at  the  back/  the  fore- 
ground being  of  the  usual  herbaceous  order. 
We  had  no  idea  that  the  dwarf  bright  yellow  Evening 
Primroses  would  look  so  well  grouped  together.  And 
Nemesia,  "Heavenly  Blue/7  has  become  the  one  annual 
our  souls  long  for :  blue  flowers  are  all  too  rare. 
Everything  was  most  kindly  labelled.  We  do  not  know 
if  it  is  possible  to  obtain  any  seedlings  this  time  of  year  / 
but  certainly,  next  year,  this  adorable  little  plant,  Nemesia, 
with  its  most  exquisite  turquoise  blue  colourings  and  its 
splendid  efflorescence,  shall  enter  largely  into  our  schemes. 
In  between  the  Nemesia,  bushes  of  Campanula  Persicifolia 
rose  with  cool  restrained  tones/  the  contrast  was  one  to 
be  copied  also. 

Another  not  impossible  example  was  a  Rose  screen, 
starting  with  a  background  of  close  growing  Ramblers, 
some  ten  or  twelve  feet  high,  supplemented  midway  by 
some  of  the  larger  Bush  Roses  and  running  down  to  the 
160 


PICKING  UP  WRINKLES 

edge  of  the  turf  in  front  with  pegged-down  Teas  /  so  that, 
to  the  very  top,  it  was  one  mass  of  varied  bloom.  We  do 
not  see  any  reason  why  such  an  effect  should  not  be 
copied,  even  in  a  small  garden. 

The  standard  Scarlet  Geraniums  we  must  admire  from  a 
respectful  distance.  They  are  as  much  beyond  our 
humble  resources  as  the  standard  Heliotrope  we  so  much 
admired  a  year  ago  in  a  millionaire's  huge  grounds  not 
very  far  from  us.  These  last  rose  out  of  a  bed  of  mauve 
Violas.  The  ambitious  soul  of  the  mistress  of  the  Villino 
hungered  to  copy  it  /  but  she  knew  that  hunger  would 
never  be  assuaged. 


We  have  had  a  frightful  disappointment  in  the  "  Miss 
Wilmott"  Verbenas.  For  two  summers  it  has  been  the 
same  story.  Last  year  they  came  up  "all  colours/7 
though  purchased  from  a  well-known  firm !  This  year,  to 
make  quite  sure,  we  ordered  seedlings  to  be  specially 
grown  for  us  from  a  local  nursery.  The  wretch  has  sent 
a  collection  of  measly  little  starveling  things  which  cannot 
be  expected  to  do  anything  for  weeks  and  weeks.  Of 
course  they  should  not  have  been  accepted  /  but  the  deed 
was  done  in  our  absence.  We  are  much  inclined  to  have 
the  beds  cleared,  and  Heliotrope  or  rose-coloured  Ivy-leaf 
Geraniums  put  in  instead.  It  is  too  late  for  anything  else. 
Gardeners  are  so  tiresome !  They  are  as  bad  as  cooks, 
who  will  accept  with  perfect  equanimity,  fish  ready  to 
illustrate  the  proverb  and  game  prepared  to  walk  to  its 
own  funeral,  and  then  say  that  "  they  thought  it  was  '  a 
bit  high '  perhaps,  but  they  weren't  quite  sure ! " 

1  161 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

We  have  forced  for  the  house  several  plants  of 
Canterbury  Bells,  glorious  purple  and  white,  which 
have  grown  to  an  extraordinary  size  and  fill  the 
Compton  pots  on  the  landing  in  very  decorative 
fashion. 

The  front  landing  and  stairs  are  wondrous  pretty 
in  the  Villino:  and  the  colour  scheme— Tangerine 
yellow  for  the  curtains  and  grey  for  the  carpet- 
somehow  suits  the  little  place,  with  its  Roman  air. 
In  the  round  bow  window  there  is  a  large  copy 
4  of  the  Samothraki  Nike  on  a  white  stand/  and  in 
front  of  her  we  place  flower-pots  all  the  year  round- 
generally  Orange  trees  in  the  winter,  with  which 
we  are  successful. 

Alas!  we  leave  the  little  Paradise  to-morrow! 
However,  we  are  still  in  such  an  intermediary 
stage  that  we  mind  less  than  when  we  lost  all 
the  glories  of  the  Azaleas.  For  anyone  of  an 
impatient  disposition,  this  time  of  the  first  setting 
out  of  the  bedding  plants  is  a  trying  ordeal.  We 
are  going  this  afternoon  on  a  surreptitious  round 
with  "  plantoids  "  to  which  Adam  objects,  but  in 
the  virtues  of  which  we  are  believers. 


The  longer  we  labour  at  garden  experiences,  the  more  it  is 
borne  in  upon  us  that  ambitiousness  is  to  be  avoided. 
No  amateurs— however  splendid  their  visions  may  be— 
should  attempt  "Wild  Gardens/7  or  "Bog  Gardens "  on 
their  own  unaided  efforts.  This  does  not  refer  to  the 
flinging  of  wild-flower  seeds  in  woodland  glades,  but  to  the 
162 


PITFALLS  OF  AMBITION 

digging  up  of  harmless  and  unobtrusive  patches  of  field 
and  bank  for  the  insertion  of  seedlings,  which  apparently 
will  never  be  at  home  in  that  particular  aspect  and  soil. 
The  worst  of  it  is  that  the  energetic  workers  are  so 
ensnared  by  the  mental  vision  that  they  very  often  fail  to 
perceive  the  paltriness  of  the  material  result. 
"We  had  to  have  the  meadow  mown  and  to  dig  it  up, 
just  along  there/'  said  an  energetic  gardening  neighbour 
to  us  the  other  day,  pointing  out  with  pride  a  dreadful 
stretch  of  raw  and  muddy  earth  that  lay  meaninglessly 
along  the  lush  field.  "  And  we  think  the  things  will  do 
now/7 

The  things— poor  little  sprigs  of  white  Violas,  and  other 
most  unadaptable  garden  children—were  looking  very  ill 
and  faint  at  long  distances  from  each  other.  And  in  any 
case,  even  if  they  were  eventually  to  flourish,  the  meadow 
was  quite  beautiful  enough  in  itself  and  needed  no  such  adorn- 
ment. But  we  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  her  so.  We  said, 
"  How  nice  that  will  be/'  but  took  the  lesson  to  ourselves. 


A  visit  to  the  Horticultural  Show  at  Holland  House— 
even  the  humblest  gardener  can  take  away  lessons  from 
these  displays  of  lavish  beauty.  We  wonder  whether  it 
would  be  possible  for  us  to  have  a  pool  anywhere  upon 
our  sandy  height.  And,  if  so,  why  should  we  not  build 
rough  rock-work  round  it  on  one  side ,-  fill  it  with  the  cool 
misty  mauve  of  the  Nipeta,  the  cool  pale  yellow  spires  of 
the  Dwarf  Mulleins,  and  the  faint  pinks  of  Spiraea/  and 
against  this  background,  walled  about  by  a  bank  of  the 
mysterious  Iris  "  Morning  Mist/'  let  a  little  slender  lead 

163 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

statue  rise  out  of  the  water?  Coolness  and  mystery! 
Shall  we  ever  encompass  that  delightful  effect  ?  .  .  .  The 
flat  flagged  paths  on  the  other  side  of  the  water  should  be 
bordered  by  Iris  /  and  they  should  dip  down  into  the  pool 
itself,  where  just  two  or  three  Water  Lilies  should  rock 
their  gold-centred  cups.  Oh,  dear !  If  we  had  sufficient 
money  how  beautiful  we  could  make  our  corner  of  the 
earth ! 

Oh,  and  the  Clematis  !~It  was  a  shock  to  find  that  we 
had  to  pay  seven  and  sixpence  each  to  go  in,  but  it  was 
worth  it,  for  we  have  plunged  to  the  extent  of  a  dozen 
adorable  Clematis  from  the  very  fountain  head—if  one  can 
so  strain  the  poor  English  language— of  Clematis  culture 
itself. 

And  the  Roses !  "  Coronation/'  a  new  bright  scarlet 
climbing  Wichuriana  /  Tausendschon  and  Blush  Rambler, 
old  favourites,  but  so  beautiful !  There  were  two  or  three 
pillars  of  unnamed  seedlings,  exquisite  apple-blossom 
beauties,  which  we  longed  to  purchase,  but  which  were 
not  yet  in  the  market.  A  firmer,  richer  apple-blossom  best 
describes  the  bloom  of  the  new  discovery. 
Quite  beyond  our  pockets,  but  most  attractive,  were  the 
standard  Ivies,  golden  and  variegated,  fifteen  years  old 
...  at  the  modest  charge  of  six  guineas  each !  Could 
we  ever  wait  fifteen  years  to  see  such  developments  ? 
After  all,  why  not  ?  The  grower  assured  us  they  were 
perfectly  hardy,  and  more  they  were  cut  the  better.  They 
would  look  charming  on  the  terrace.  Such  balls  of 
gold! 

Lilies  at  the  top  of  a  rock-garden  or  at  the  top  of  a  rough 
wall  have  a  most  charming  effect. 
164 


TANTALISING  NOVELTIES 

We  have  invested  in  three  and  sixpence  worth  of  new 
fertiliser  guaranteed  to  "  produce  an  appearance  like  dark 
green  Utrecht  velvet  in  ten  days  on  the  roughest  lawn." 
"  Would  you  like  your  lawn  to  look  like  that,  Madam  ? " 
asked  the  red-headed  youth  in  charge  of  squares  that  didn't 
look  in  the  least  like  real  grass,  but  a  kind  of  artificial 
compound  as  above  mentioned. 

"Very  much!"  said  one  of  us,  who  was  struck  by  the 
unnatural  hue  and  smoothness  of  the  exhibit."—"  Do  mind 
the  sun  on  your  head ! "  she  added  parenthetically  to  the 
delicate  member  of  our  party,  who  is  always  on  her  mind. 
"  Oh,  pray  Madam,  do  not  trouble  to  shade  me,"  said 
the  red-haired  youth  modestly.  "  I  am  quite  all  right,  I 
assure  you." 

We  had  a  vision  of  Loki's  Ma-Ma  in  her  quaint  Directoire 
dress,  all  striped  black-and-cream  chiffon  and  dim  orange, 
with  her  absurd  little  Directoire  tulle  hat  and  its  one 
coquettish  rose  (absurd  but  not  unbecoming)  spending  the 
rest  of  the  afternoon  in  sudden  philanthropic  frenzy, 
shading  the  red-haired  youth  from  the  July  sunshine,  while 
he  volubly  touted  for  orders  for  patent  fertilisers!  In- 
nately polite,  we  explained.  He  was  not  in  the  least 
abashed. 
"  I  do  feel  it  very  hot,"  he  remarked  simply. 


165 


XXIII 

LOKI  is  once  more  Only-dog  in  London.  He  is  un- 
speakably grimy,  as  none  of  the  famiglia  except  Juvenal 
are  ever  able  or  willing  to  tub  him  when  he  most 
wants  it.  Juvenal,  his  special  friend,  has  been  away  on 
his  holiday— poor  little  Loki  could  not  understand  his 
absence.  He  was  perpetually  rushing  out  of  the  rooms 
and  downstairs  to  see  if  he  had  arrived.  At  last,  worn 
out  with  suspense,  he  dashed  up  to  his  butler's  bedroom 
and  would  not  be  satisfied  till  he  was  admitted ,-  when,  jump- 
ing on  the  bed,  he  began  to  tear  up  the  clothes,  believing, 
we  suppose,  that  Juvenal  shared  his  propensity  for  curling 
under  the  quilt.  Odd  little  dog !  He  has  as  many  moods 
as  a  fine  lady,  and  when  really  annoyed  lies  in  a  strained 
attitude  with  his  hind  paws  stuck  outward  like  the  embryo 
legs  of  a  little  crocodile.  This  is  the  sign  that  he  wants 
"a  powder ":  what  we  call  in  our  playful  dog-language, 
"  a  pow-pow." 

What  a  freemasonry  the  love  of  dogs  creates !     Loki's 
Grandfather,  travelling  up  from  our  moors  the  other  day, 
met  a  family  likewise  going  to  London/  and  these  had 
with  them   a  small   Pekinese,  who  sat  very  sadly  with 
drooping  head  and  tail.    The  owner  of  Loki  watched  him 
sympathetically  for  some  time  in  silence,  then  unable  to 
repress  his  feelings,  he  leant  forward  and  said  very  solemnly 
to  the  Pekinese's  lady : 
"  This  little  dog  wants  a  pow-wow ! " 
"  Oh !  we  know/'  eagerly  cried  the  lady  in  charge,  "  we 
know  he  does !    He  should  have  had  it  this  morning,  only 
we  were  travelling." 
166 


FREEMASONRY  OF  DOG-LOVERS 

We  were  pleased  with  the  anecdote  when  Loki's  Grand- 
father told  us.  No  introductions,  no  explanations  needed : 
even  our  own  special  doggy  dialect  instantly  apprehended! 
One  touch  of  Peky  makes  the  whole  world  kin. 

A  divine  discontent  seems  an  unavoidable  accompaniment 

of  garden  ambition.     The  Lady  of  Villino  Loki  is  always 

furiously  disappointed  every  time  she  returns  home—except 

in  the  Spring.  She  had,  this  time,  wonderful 

visions   of  her  Madonna  Lilies,   proudly 

straight  against  the  upper  terrace 

wall  /  of  her  Blue  Border 

foaming  blue  /  of  her  new 

turf  settling  down   into 

greenness.  And,  behold, 

the  Lilies  have  got  the 

lily  disease,  drat  them! 

the   Blue   Border  never 

will   be  blue,   whatever 

she  does  /  the  Anchusas 

have  gone  back  to  the 

wild/  and  not  one  drop 

of  water  has  the  infant 

turf    received     through 

three  weeks  of  drought 

since  her  departure— with 

the  results  that  can  be 

imagined ! 


Not  one  of  our  precious  packets  of  seed 
have  come  up !    We  once  knew  a  pretty 


167 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

American  whose  daughter  married  a  rather  impoverished 
young  Englishman  of  very  good  connexions.  He  was, 
however,  scarcely  important  enough  himself  to  attract 
much  attention :  and  the  day  before  the  wedding  he  was 
nonplussed  by  his  future  mother-in-law,  hitherto  the  most 
silky  and  smiling  of  beings,  taking  him  by  the  arm  and 
marching  him  round  the  displayed  wedding  presents,  pausing 
at  every  step  to  remark :  "  I  do  not  see  the  present  of  your 
uncle,  Lord  A. !  I  do  not  see  the  present  of  your  cousin, 
Lady  B. !  I  do  not  see  the  present  of  your  great  aunt,  the 
Duchess  of  C.!"... 

We  want  to  take  the  seedsman  in  similar  fashion  round 
the  greenhouse  shelves : 

"Where  are  the  pots  of  Mignonette ? "  we  will  say. 
"  Where  the  serried  ranks  of  Scarlet  Verbena  ?  Where  are 
the  potted  Nicotianas  ? "  . . . 


168 


XXIV 

THE  Master  of  the^'House— he  has 
admitted  it  himself  somewhere  in  these 
pages  ~  understands    little 
if  anything  of  gardener's 
art:  that  is,  of  the  art  of 
rearing    flowers    in    their 
proper  seasons,  in  suitable 
ground  and  so  forth.    But 
he    complacently   believes 
that  he  has  an  aptitude  for 
what,  on  a  larger  theatre 
of  operations  than  the  few 
acres  of  Villino  Loki, 
would  be  called  Land- 
scape Gardening !  He 
imagines  that,  had  fate 
provided  him  with  an 
"  estate/'    he    would 
have  been  great  at  de- 
vising vistas,  grouping 
trees,  laying  out  pleasing  curves  of  approach,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing. 

At  the  Villino  this  imaginary  special  competency  could 
only  find  an  opening  in  clearance  work.  And  when  we 
first  bought  this  strip  of  hill-side,  clearance  was  indeed  no 
small  matter. 

With  the  exception  of  the  terraces  immediately  round 
the  House  and  of  the  kitchen  yards  about  the  Cottage, 
the  whole  place  was  a  congeries  of  almost  impenetrable 

169 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

thickets,  interspersed  with  patches  of  heather  and  furze. 
There  were  but  two  paths,  running  down,  in  purely  utilitarian 
lines,  from  the  higher  level  to  that  of  the  cottage  potager. 
<What  has  been  achieved  since  then  in  the  matter  of  path- 
cutting  can  be  made  patent  by  a  glance  at  Mr.  Robinson's 
perspective  map  of  the  Villino  grounds.) 
So  thick  and  strenuous  was  the  growth  of  underwood— 
self-sown  infant  Hollies,  adolescent  Larches  and  Pines, 
young  Ashes,  Oaks  and  Chestnuts  in  their  nonage,  all 
interlocked,  entwined  in  Brambles  and  Honeysuckle,  that 
hardly  anywhere  could  the  trunks  of  the  full-grown  trees 
be  distinguished. 

Now  it  is  obvious  that  the  beauty  of  wooded  grounds 
depends  essentially  upon  light  effects  under  the  foliage  and 
between  the  boles/  upon  distant  peeps.  In  no  direction 
ought  the  view  ever  to  be  solidly  stopped—unless,  of  course, 
where  it  is  desired  to  hide  some  unpleasing  prospect.  It 
may  therefore  be  erected  into  a  maxim  that,  if  trees  are 
to  be  enjoyed,  underwoods  must  be  sacrificed  wholesale. 


At  first,  with  that  reverence  for  things  which,  if  they  may 
be  laid  low  at  one  blow  or  two  of  the  billhook,  require 
many  years  for  their  growth,  one  feels  inclined  to  hesitate. 
One's  heart  rebels  at  the  thought  of  cutting  off  in  the 
flower  of  its  youth  the  sapling  that  -in  the  spring  is  of  so 
tender  green,  the  bush  of  name  unknown  but  engaging 
enough— if  there  were  not  "  so  many  of  him/'  But  it  soon 
becomes  evident  that  you  must  harden  your  heart  and 
ruthlessly  slash  away  the  bulk  of  undergrowths,  for  good 
and  all. 
170 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  HOLLY 

And    this  has  been  the  province  of  the  padrone.     And 
although  on  many  an  occasion  at  first  the  padrona  bewailed 
bitterly,   almost  tearfully,  that  he 
was    making    the    place    "simply 
scald,"  it  is  now  generally  admitted 
that  the  result  has  proved  a  matter 
for  congratulation. 
There  have  been   a  few  mistakes, 
no  doubt.    It  was  not  easy,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  case  of  Holly,  and 
perhaps  also  of  Rowan,  for  the  be- 
ginner to  distinguish  which  clump 
was  likely  to  bear  the  decorative 
winter  coral  and  which  not.    Seeing 
what  some  of  our  Hollies  in  a  good 
season  can  be  <that  which  closes 
the  prospect   at  the  north  end 
of  our  Hemicycle,  for  example, 
what  a  glory  of  pure  scarlet  it 
displays  when  all  bright  colours  have 
disappeared     from    the    garden ! )   we 
regret  not  to  have  spared  a  few  more. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  a  wise  decision,  in         -    ." 
grounds  overgrown  by  underwood,  that  delendum  est  Hex 
Aquifolium—that  Common  Holly  must  go. 
In  the  first  place,  nothing  will  grow  under  the  shade  of  its 
dark  leathery,  spinous  leaves,  which,  even  when  shed,  are 
more  indestructible  and  noxious  to  grass  than  pine  needles 
themselves.  And,  secondly,  Holly  is  a  very  bully  and  brigand 
among  growing  trees.     Its  vitality  and  pushfulness  over- 
masters everything.    Your  young  Holly  will  thrust  aside 

171 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

the  sturdiest  neighbouring  branches  /  will  conquer  its  "  place 
under  the  sun  "  to  the  detriment  of  the  equally  fair  claims 
of  Oak,  or  Ash,  or  anything  that  strives  upward. 
No— the  right  place  of  Holly  is  in  the  close-set  hedge,  for 
which  its  forbidding,  never-failing  foliage  and  its  vigorous 
growth  pre-eminently  fit  it.  Or,  again,  in  a  dignified 
isolation  where  it  can,  without  truculent  self-assertion, 
develop  on  all  sides  its  regular,  shapely  growth,  look 
beautiful  at  all  times  in  its  evergreen  sheen  /  and,  if  of  the 
fruit-bearing  sex,  relieve  with  its  scarlet  the  browns  of 
autumn  and  the  white  of  a  winter  landscape. 


The  first  spot  to  be  assailed  was  the  area  now  called  the 
Blue-bell  Glade,  the  interior  of  which  was  then  terra  incog- 
nita. It  had  to  be  tackled  like  a  fortress— by  regular  sap. 
Nothing  was  spared  but  the  full-grown  trees.  Terrible  was 
the  destruction,  and  gigantic  the  accumulation  of  small 
firewood  for  future  use.  But  great  was  the  landscape 
result :  it  gave  us  our  first  far-reaching  perspective  along 
our  own  ground.  We  had,  of  course,  fine  and  wide  views 
over  the  tree-tops  from  the  highest  terrace.  But  now  we 
obtained,  in  one  direction  at  least,  a  middle-distance  pro- 
spect of  green  fields  between  the  boles  under  overhanging 
branches.  And  the  effect  was  singularly  satisfying. 
And  so  the  war  on  undergrowth  was  carried-on, 
with  system,  until  the  present  pleasing  condition  was 
reached,  when  in  every  direction  the  eye  is  able  to  find,  up 
hill  or  down,  either  some  far  view  of  moor  or  valley,  or 
some  corner  of  the  grounds  themselves,  now  grass-grown 
or  bright  with  flower-beds. 
172 


THE  GREAT  CLEARANCE 

Grass—that  was  what  Villino  Loki  most  wanted !  And 
the  extirpation  of  the  greatest  enemies  to  grass— Brush- 
wood, Heather,  Gorse,  and  Bracken— has  been  the  hardest 
achievement  of  all :  one  which  Grandpa  is  fond  of  letting 
every  one  know  is  more  especially  his  own. 
The  Great  Clearance  took  place  in  what  may  be  called 
the  pre-Adamite  age  of  this  little  Earthly  Paradise.  Adam 
<in  a  kind  of  fateful  way)  only  appeared  upon  the  scene 
after  the  rougher  work  had  been  dealt  with  of  letting  in 
the  air  and  light  of  heaven  wherever  it  had  hitherto  failed. 
He  arrived,  of  his  own  initiative,  to  offer  his  services  in 
the  matter  of  gardening,  on  the  very  day  when  his  pre- 
decessor—one Grinder,  whom  on  benevolence  intent  we 
had  allowed  to  assume  the  duties  of  "  gardener/7  save  the 
mark !— had  had  at  last  to  be  dismissed. 
The  late  Grinder,  whatever  his  disqualifications  for  the 
honourable  title  thrust  upon  him  may  have  been,  was 
undoubtedly  a  lusty  worker.  But  the  Great  Clearance 
was  too  great  a  task  for  one  man.  It  was  thus,  by  the 
way,  that  Caliban  <likewise  now  "  the  late  ">  was  intro- 
duced as  labouring  assistant,  and,  from  the  nature  of  his 
labours,  known  as  the  Woodman. 

The  elimination  of  underwoods,  however,  was  by  no 
means  the  most  arduous  task.  Let  once  the  good  light 
of  day  and  the  free  airs  penetrate  to  the  ground  hitherto 
obscured  and  choked,  and  in  a  given  time  grass  will  make 
its  appearance.  And  it  will  spread  healthily  if  the  lower 
branches  of  all  standing  trees  are  lopped,  up  to  a  suitable 
height.  But  we  wanted  grass  not  only  in  the  glades,  but, 
if  possible,  upon  every  stretch  of  soil  not  devoted  to 
flowering  beds  or  ornamental  bush.  And,  to  that  end, 

173 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

the  Heather  and  the  Gorse  had  likewise  to  be  banished  in 
perpetuity.  With  miles  of  Heather  and  Gorse-clad  moors 
about  one,  Ericas  of  any  kind,  and  certainly  Ulex,  how- 
ever delightful  in  themselves  and  in  their  native  habitat, 
are  distinctly  de  trop  in  the  garden. 

Seen  in  wide  masses,  and  whether  in  the  brown,  green,  or 
purple  stage,  Heather,  as  we  know,  is  an  ever 
beautiful  cloak  to  the  earth.    But  except  at  the 
height  of  its  flowering  richness,  when  it  occurs 
in  scattered  patches,  its  effect  is  apt  to  be 
rusty  and   unkempt.     As   for  the   Gorse— 
gorgeous   as  it  undoubtedly  be  at  its  full 
golden  time  when  seen  in  clumps  on  down 
or    roadside— it    has,   at  close    quarters,   a 
ragged,  dusty,  almost  leprous  appear- 
ance  which  quite  unfits  it  for  cultiva- 
tion.     It  would  seem  as  though  all  its 
vital  beauty  were  driven  out  to  the  flowering 
tops :  its  inner  and  lower  portions  are  always 
dried  up,  and  scabby  as  from  some  withering  sick- 
ness.   Such,  at  least,  is  always  the   case  with  the 
full-grown  plant,-  though,  when  very  young,  or  when 
springing  anew  from  a  shorn  stump,  it  remains  for  some 
time  pleasingly  green  all  over. 

To  the  uninitiated  it  may  appear  simple  enough  to  pluck 
up  the  Heather  /  but  how  soon  will  he  be  brought  face  to 
face  with  the  dismal  fact  that,  for  grass-growing  purposes, 
this  superficial  treatment  is  of  no  avail  whatsoever  !  The 
peaty  soil,  product  of  untold  generations  of  Heather, 
spongy  to  a  depth  of  many  inches,  matted  with  the 
174 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  GRASS 

fibrils  of  roots,  is  absolutely  antagonistic  to  grass  of 
any  description.  The  roots  of  the  Furze,  on  their  side, 
deep-reaching,  far-spreading  and  tenacious,  are  simply 
rejuvenated  and  rejoiced  by  the  lopping  of  the  plant  above 
ground.  YOU  may  think  you  have  done  with  it :  behold ! 
within  a  very  few  weeks  saucy  spriglets  of  brightest  green 
Gorse  will  merrily  make  their  appearance  and  claim  the 
land  again  as  their  own  ! 

Any  seed  sown  on  such  a  bed  is  merely  so  much  food 
offered  to  the  fowls  of  the  air.  The  Master  of  the  House 


had  to  learn  that  lesson  practically,  and  lost  a  couple  of 
seasons  in  so  doing.  <As  may  plainly  be  seen,  he  was  a 
thoroughgoing  ignoramus  in  that  quarter  /  and  he  was  not 
likely  to  be  set  right  by  Mr.  Grinder  !>  It  was  only  when 
Adam  supervened  and  pointed  out  the  necessity  of 
trenching  the  ground,  ridding  it  of  its  centuries-old  tangle 
of  fibre,  overturning  and  pressing  it,  that  the  desired  green 
result  could  at  length  be  obtained.  But  the  overturning 
demanded  the  combined  work  of  pickaxe,  fork,  and  cutting 
spade.  It  produced  an  incredible  amount  of  underground 
wood,  tough,  sappy,  and  seemingly  incombustible  /  and  it 
kept  Caliban  occupied  for  many  a  long  week, 


We  have  now  many  promising  verdant  roods,  destined  in 

175 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

time  to  be  improved  into  lawns,  where  hitherto  Heath 
and  Whin  held  their  sway.  But  the  spaces  lately  freed 
from  underwoods,  which  we  so  fondly  hoped  would  turn 
of  themselves  into  grassy  glades  and  dells,  provided  us 
with  new  Heraclean  labours, 

Have  I  named  Bracken  ?~Bracken !  an  everlasting  problem 
on  such  a  piece  of  land  as  ours,  which  less  than  a 
century  back  was  undoubtedly  part  of  the  wild  moorland 
itself.  Nothing,  it  seems,  but  thorough  overturning  will 
really  and  finally  rid  the  soil  of  the  unconscionable  Bracken 
—the  ubiquitous,  the  imperishable,  the  exasperating  Pteris 
Aquilina ! 


This  knowledge  has  been  impressed  on  us  by  the  experi- 
ence of  successive  years.  Our  first  inkling  of  it  was 
when,  returning  to  the  Villino  after  a  few  months7  absence 
and  fondly  anticipating  to  find  our  precious  glades  <which, 
after  the  Great  Clearance,  had  been  generously  sown 
with  grass)  covered  with  a  tender-green,  thickly-piled 
carpet,  we  were  confronted  with  waving  fields  of  lusty 
Brake  already  breast  high. 

In  itself  the  sight  was  not  displeasing/  the  young  verdure 
was  cool  to  the  eye  and  did  not  greatly  impede  the  view.  But 
what  we  wanted  was  Grass.     Grass  which,  in  course  of 
time  and  at  their  proper  seasons,  Crocus  Vernus,  Primrose, 
Blue-bell  and  Daffodil,  Foxglove,  and  Colchicum  Autum- 
nale  would  star  and  illumine  with  colour. 
Now,  where  the  Brake  thrives,  it  takes  unto  itself  the 
whole  bounty  of  the  sun,  and  stifles  all  plant-life  of  lesser 
height  than  itself. 
176 


WAR  ON  BRACKEN 

We  disconsolately  took  advice  from  presumably  competent 
persons. 

''Oh/7  said  Everybody,  with  confidence,  "you  can 
get  rid  of  Bracken  if  you  cut  it  twice  in  the  same 
year/' 

"  Can  you  ?  "—and  here  the  Master  of  Villino  Loki,  in  a 
state  of  inveteracy  and  resentment  foreign  to  his  usually 
placid  character,  feels  he  must  again  speak  in  the  first 
person—"  Can  you  ? "  (this  is  sarcastic)  "  I  tell  you,  sir, 
that  for  the  last  three  years  I  have  cut  that  infernal 
Bracken,  not  twice  in  the  twelvemonth,  but  four  times 
and  more— and  look  at  it ! " 

You  may  imagine  me  pointing,  with  an  indignation  difficult 
to  repress,  to  some  corner  of  the  cleared  ground  that  does 
not  happen  to  have  been  visited  quite  lately  by  the  spud  or 
the  furze-cutter. 

"This/7  I  say  with  emphasis,  "I  myself  purged  of  all 
visible  Bracken  only  last  month ! " 

Now,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  space  in  question,  if  not 
actually  covered  with  the  pertinacious  fronds,  is  dotted 
with  scores,  nay  hundreds,  of  forceful  shoots  /  some  still 
cosily  curled  up  in  their  "  crosier "  stage,  others  impu- 
dently stretching  themselves  under  the  sun  and  persisting, 
in  spite  of  all  edicts,  in  screening  its  rays  from  the  hard- 
struggling  grass.  What  chance  has  humble  grass  against 
a  thing  that  will  sprout  three  inches  in  one  night?  And, 
if  you  look  closer,  you  perceive  a  host  of  baby  offshoots 
cheerfully  pushing  from  some  deep-burrowing  ancient 
subterranean  body,  its  innumerable  little  bald  heads 
between  the  sorely  tried,  recently  established  grass  settle- 
ments. 

m  177 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

Twice  cut,  forsooth !— Why,  to  this  day,  in  the  very 
middle  of  paths  made  three  years  ago  <"  Three— years— 
ago— sir !  ">,  you  will  discover  here,  there,  and  there  again, 
a  healthy  shoot,  sappy  and  erect,  balancing  its  bright 
green  plume  right  in  the  way,  as  if  in  defiance  of  all 
extermination. 

No— the  most  that  can  be  claimed  as  a  result  of  the  war 
which  is  still  being  waged  upon  the  Brake  is  that,  perhaps, 
this  pertinacious  growth  is  beginning  to  betray  some  signs 
of  discouragement.  The  ranks  of  the  legions,  as  they 
make  their  periodical  reappearance  with  an  obstinacy 
worthy  of  a  better  cause,  grow  a  trifle  thinner  year  by 
year. 

"  If  you  only  cut  them  young,"  says  Adam,  consolingly 
but  with  cruel  imagery,  "  they  say  the  roots  will  bleed  to 
death." 

This— Corporal  Nym  would  hint— is  as  may  be.  As  in 
the  case  of  our  wonderful  forbears,  bloodletting  in  the 
Spring,  if  not  really  conducive  to  better  health,  seems 
to  interfere  little  with  their  thriving.  Meanwhile,  happily, 
as  no  scion  of  Pteris  Aquilina  <if  it  cannot  really  be  pre- 
vented from  cropping  up  where  it  chooses)  is  now  allowed 
ever  to  reach  its  baleful  maturity,  the  desired  and  much- 
petted  grass  is  gradually  establishing  itself.  And,  with 
that  eager  optimism  in  gardening  matters  which  is  a 
characteristic  of  the  family  at  Villino  Loki,  we  look 
forward,  in  a  few  years,  to  the  prospect  of  a  suc- 
cession of  grassy  carpets  from  crest  to  foot  on  our  hill- 
side. 

But  this  consummation,  much  desired,  can,  we  are  aware, 
only  be  secured  by  unremitting  labour.  Sometimes  the 
178 


HAUNTING  RHYMES 

Master  of  the  House  <who,  having  rashly  vowed  to 
achieve  the  task,  considers  himself  bound  to  see  it 
through  himself)  is  assailed  by  something  very  like  mis- 
doubt as  he  rests  awhile  upon  his  spud,  blunted  by 
some  two  hours'  punching  at  sporadic  croziers,  and  com- 
putes the  remaining  roods,  nay,  the  acres,  still  to  be 
dealt  with  .  .  . 

If  seven  men,  with  seven  spuds 
Should  punch  for  half  a  year  .  .  . 


Rock  of  Sisyphus  !—  Cask  of  the  Danaides  !—  Hydra  of 
Argolis,  with  the  unquenchable  heads  !—  these  and  others 
are  similes  that  fatally  drift  into  his  meditations. 


When  engaged  upon  work  of  protracted  and  futile  itera- 
tion—such as  "  Bracken-chivvying  "—tags  of  inane  rhymes 
are  apt  to  invade  the  hypnotized  brain :  of  the  kind  that 
sometimes  rise  in  accompaniment  to  the  steady  bumping  of 
railway  wheels  on  certain  slow  journeys.  A  particularly 
haunting  one— to  be  conjured  off  if  possible— is  the 
"  Nightmare"  jingle/  Mark  Twain's,  I  believe: 

Punch/,  conduc/tor,  punch/with  care, 
A  green/trip-slip/for  a  two/cent  fare, 
A  pink/trip-slip/for  a  three/cent  fare, 
Punch/,  punch/,  punch  with  care  .  .  . 

and  so  on  relentlessly. 

If  these  are  not  the  exact  horrid  words,  this  is  the  way 

179 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

they  come  back  to  me,  giving  a  lilt  to  vindictive  spud 

work. 

At  another  time,  the  apparent  futility  of  all  efforts  to  come 

even  with  the  task  at  hand  will  evoke  some  such  iterative  lines 

as  Cyrano's  dying  vision  of  eternally  resurging  enemies  '• 

Je  sais/bien  qua/la  fin/vous  me/ 

mettrez/a  has 

•%.£.•  N'impor/te,  je/me  bats/,  je  me/ 
Sgr  bats,  je/me  bats  I 

This  sort  of  absolutely 
incongruous  haunting  is 
an  instance  of  what 
Hoffmann  would  have 
fondly  called  the  Zusam- 
meverhdngniss  der  Dinge 
or  "  fatally-concatenated- 
mutuaMnterdependency  " 
of  things  !  Mythological 
images  rising  vaguely  from  the 
clouds  of  school  memories  /  the 
lilt  of  that  Walrus  and  Carpenter  verse 
parodied  a  thousand  times  /  an  American 
jingle  never  recalled  since  it  was  first 
casually  read  and  dismissed  on  a  railway  journey  /  and 
the  magniloquent  panache  lines  of  Rostand— all  dropping 
in  irrelevantly  from  some  distant  and  forgotten  corner  of 
the  past  into  this  garden,  all  a  propos  of  spud  work  and 
linking  itself  with  it! 

For  instance,  to-day  <one  of  the  three  longest  in  the  year, 
for,  in  the  coming  morn,  about  five  o'clock,  our  summer 
180 


FERN  SEED 

solstice  will  have  taken  place),  as  I  spudded  away  at  the 
fern,  thirstily  and  perspiringly,  my  haunting  iteration  was 
alternately  of  images  wide  as  the  poles  asunder.  One 
was  of  those  puzzling  lines,  in  Boileau's  heroicomic 
poem  Le  Lutrin,  anent  the  barber  who 

.  .  .  d'une  main  leg&re 
Tient  un  verre  de  vin  qui  rit  dans  la  fougere. 

The  other  was  of  Gadshill  boast :  "  We  steal  as  in  a  castle, 
cock-sure :  we  have  the  receipt  of  fern-seed "  ~  which 
irresistibly,  by  concatenation,  brought  in  the  image  of 
my  dear  if  disreputable  old  friend  Falstaff  and  how  he 
would  have  "  larded  the  lean  earth  "  as  he  spudded  along. 
Now  it  occurs  to  me  that  if  the  receipt  of  fern-seed  as 
handed  down  by  tradition  is  in  any  way  correct,  this  is  the 
last  day  when  this  fern  massacre  can  be  of  any  use,  as 
far  as  Villino  Loki  is  concerned,  to  prevent  its  propa- 
gation for  this  year.  Is  not  to-morrow  St.  John's  Eve,- 
and  is  not  that  the  date  upon  which  the  invisible  seed— 
which  once  successfully  gathered  will  confer  upon  the 
gatherer  the  power  of  invisibility— drops  upon  the  soil  ? 
The  harvest,  it  seems,  must  be  made  "  in  the  dark  of  the 
moon/'  at  the  exact  turning  of  midnight,  and  received  in  a 
pewter  plate/  without  regard  to  the  beguiling  pranks  of 
fairy  or  goblin,  who,  naturally  enough,  are  jealous  of  the 
acquisition  by  mere  mortals  of  this  essential  attribute  of 
their  order.  The  receipt  does  not  state  how  the  pewter- 
harvested  seed,  being  invisible,  is  to  be  bottled  up  or  other- 
wise preserved  for  use  when  required. 
This,  by  the  way,  is  a  fairly  typical  instance  of  the  manner 
in  which  our  mediaeval  superstitions  were  shrouded  in 

181 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

cryptic  conditions,  the  failure  of  any  one  of  which  in  the 
smallest  particular  would  plausibly  explain  away  the 
failure  of  the  whole  charm.— We  can  easily  understand 
the  paucity  of  invisible  mortals  at  all  times. 
Well,  I  for  one  have  no  desire  for  such  a  charm.  The 
temptation  to  use  it  would  be  distracting!  And  conceive 
the  endless  trouble,  picture  to  yourself  the  misconceptions, 
you  would  raise  into  your  own  mind  if  you  possessed  the 
power  at  any  moment  of  prying,  invisible,  into  the  innermost 
life  of  your  best  friends,  or  your  enemies  .  .  .  and  of  hearing 
what  they  might  happen  to  say  about  you  \ 
No.  Yet  I  would  some  power  gave  me  the  gift  to  gather 
all  the  invisible  seed  at  Villino  Loki:  I  would  bum  it 
once  and  for  all. 

One  cannot  help  wondering  that  so  little  use  should  be 
made  of  all  this  vegetable  wealth.  There  it  is,  covering 
square  leagues  of  common  land,  to  be  harvested  by  who- 
soever list.  In  former  days,  indeed,  it  was  gathered  in  and 
burnt  for  "  potashes  "—chiefly  for  glass-making.  And 
therein  lies  the  explanation  of  the  wine  "laughing  in  the 
Joug&re" t  ash  of  fougere,  or  Bracken,  had  in  the  "grand 
Roy's  "  days  become  synonymous  with  glass  itself.  Again, 
in  its  dry  condition,  Brake  was  once  extensively  used  for 
thatching  and  for  litter ,-  in  some  parts  of  the  country  the 
young  plant  was  given  as  fodder  to  cattle  and  horses. 
Now,  however,  county  councils  forbid  the  building  of 
thatch,  our  up-to-date  cattle  and  horses  are  too  fastidious 
as  to  litter  and  fodder,  and  we  import  our  potashes. 
Meanwhile,  Bracken  threatens  everywhere  to  stifle  the 
Heather  on  our  moors. 

If  I  remember  right,  in  some  parts  of  France  the  poorer 
182 


CROSSES  DE  FOUGERE,  A  LA  JAPONAISE 
people  make  use  of  young  Brake  as  food.  And  this 
reminds  me  that,  some  years  ago,  I  heard  the  last  Japanese 
Ambassador  remark  at  dinner—a  propos  of  the  Asparagus 
that  was  just  going  round—that  he  wondered  we  should 
not  make  use  in  the  kitchen  of  the  Bracken  he  had  noticed 
growing  in  such  enormous  and  neglected  quantities  in 
England.  In  his  country,  he  assured  us,  they  eat  the 
young  shoots,  when  still  in  their  folded  "crozier"  stage, 
precisely  as  we  over  here  eat  Asparagus,  and  consider 
them  not  only  as  delicacies,  but  as  particularly  whole- 
some and  nutritious, 

The  recipe  for  cooking  them  is  simple.  The  croziers,  cut 
just  short  of  the  roots,  are  to  be  parboiled  in  strongly  salted 
water  /  the  first  water,  which  extracts  some  unpleasantly 
bitter  principle,  is  to  be  quickly  poured  off/  then  the 
shoots,  thoroughly  drained  of  this  first  water,  are  boiled 
in  a  large  quantity  of  fresh  water,  drained  again  carefully 
and  served  with  oil  or  butter,  very  much  like  our  Sprue. 
I  must  some  day  make  the  experiment.  I  wonder  if  the 
joy,  now,  of  eating  tender  young  Bracken  would  be  like 
that  of  the  savage  devouring  his  declared  enemy  ? 
Meanwhile,  for  the  sake  of  the  desired  grass,  the  hecatomb 
must  be  repeated  daily. 


183 


XXV 


THIS  July,   not   remarkable    for 
anything  but  rain  and  dark  skies, 
has  produced  a  perfect  outbreak 
of  wickedness  in  the  village.    Our 
black  sheep  have  turned  into 
tigers  without  even  the  excuse 
of  torrid  weather   to  inflame 
their  passions.   But,  indeed,  the 
public  house  is  always  ready 
to  supply  the  stimulant  neces- 
sary for  driving  average  hu- 
manity into  brutal  and  insane 
crime. 

Caliban,    whom  the    reader 
mayiremember  as  having  once 
worked     in     our    Fortunate 
/          Island,    and    always    looking 
as  if  he  had  just  risen  from'all-fours, 
has,  in  our  recent  absence,  thrown 
away  all  pretence  at  humanity  once 
and   for  all.    Though,   indeed,   why 
should  the  poor  beasts,  who  generally  make  ex- 
cellent fathers  and  husbands,  be  compared  to  the 
type  of  man  that  deliberately  ruins  his  home?  To  batter 
your  wife,  terrorize  your  children,  to  squander  your 
substance  for  an  indulgence  which  ultimately  destroys 
your  health,  is  a  mystery  of  perversity  reserved  for  the 
superior  being. 

Anyway,  Caliban,  having  drifted  from  place  to  place,  and 
184 


MORE  BLACK  SHEEP 

lost  his  last  chance  of  employment  in  this  district  by  killing 
a  whole  hot-house  full  of  Tomatoes  through  drunken  neglect 
"on"  the  local  market  gardener,  as  we  should  say  in 
Ireland,  finally  locked  his  wife  and  children  out  of  the  little 
cottage,  and  shut  himself  in  with  his  drunkenness  in  com- 
pany with  his  aged  but  not  less  drunken  parent.  The 
power  of  thought  having  returned  in  the  morning,  the 
precious  pair  put  their  boosy  heads  together  and  sold  the 
furniture,  possessed  themselves  of  every  available  valuable, 
even  of  Mrs.  Caliban's  solitary  trinket,  and  decamped 
together  from  the  district ! 

Mrs.  Caliban,  with  an  infant  in  arms  and  two  little  girls 
at  her  skirts,  has  now  set  to  work  to  earn  enough  for 
all.  She  is  a  valiant  woman  /  and  no  doubt  when  she  has 
succeeded  fairly  well,  Caliban  will  return  to  repeat  the 
process.  She  is  very  anxious  for  a  separation,  but  cannot 
accomplish  this,  as  the  whereabouts  of  her  lord  and  master 
are  unknown. 


She  is  less  fortunate  than  the  wife  of  Black  Sheep  No.  2. 
Last  Saturday  we  were  peacefully  entertaining  a  couple 
of  week-end  visitors,  when  poor  Mrs.  Mutton  crawled  into 
our  garden  to  "see  the  young  lady/'  The  water-butt 
myth  was  cast  to  the  winds.  She  had  a  black  eye  and  a 
dislocated  thumb,  and  informed  us  that  Mutton  had 
threatened  to  "  do  for  her/'  and  that  she  was  going  in  fear 
of  her  life.  "  When  not  drunk/'  she  remarked  with  the 
apathy  of  despair,  "  I  think  he's  mad ! " 
Mutton  is  well  known  in  the  district  for  his  playful  ways, 
and  no  one  would  consent  to  house  his  wife  but  an  enter- 

185 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

prising  barber:  on  the  condition,  however,  that  Mutton 
did  not  come  after  her.  The  poor  thing  shivered  and 
shook,  and  avowed  that  she  could  not  return  and  pass 
another  hour  in  such  terrors.  When  she  heard  his  step, 
she  told  us,  a  trembling  would  seize  her. 
"  You  ladies/'  she  said,  rolling  her  hopeless  eyes  from  one 
sympathetic  listener  to  another,  "  can  have  no  idea  of  the 
kind  of  life  poor  women  like  us  lead ! " 
Little  Jimmy  Mutton  and  she  had  spent  the  previous  night 
out  under  fear  of  a  gun,  which  Black  Sheep  pere  had  taken 
to  bed  with  him,  with  threats  of  instant  use.  The  first  idea 
of  the  owners  of  Villino  Loki  was  that  the  woman  should 
have  protection,-  and  here  the  drama  took  a  Gilbertian 
form  with  a  dash  of  nightmare.  Her  cottage  being  on  the 
borders  of  another  county,  no  policeman  nearer  than  nine 
miles  off  had  the  right  to  intervene.  In  vain  did  "the 
young  lady,"  attended  by  the  two  week-end  visitors,  start 
off  for  the  nearest  magistrate  and  lay  the  case  before  him. 
Mrs.  Mutton  must  betake  herself  to  that  far  county  town, 
by  what  means  she  best  might  /  and  if  she  and  her  poor 
lambs  were  "done  for"  between  this  and  then,  it  would 
all  be  within  the  strict  limits  of  the  law  as  far  as  the 
magistrate  was  concerned.  With  fruitless  eloquence  were 
the  perils  of  the  situation  painted  in  their  blackest 
colours.  Mutton,  as  we  have  said,  was  famous,  and 
like  Habacuc  in  Voltaire's  estimation,  might  be  capable 
de  tout. 

Could  not  the  local  policeman  take  possession  of  the 
gun? 

Impossible.    No  policeman   nearer   than   Paddocks  town 
could  lay  a  finger  on  it. 
186 


COUNTY  POLICE  METHODS 

Could  not  at  least  the  village  Bobby  keep  an  eye  on  the 
house  where  the  enterprising  barber  had  taken  in  the 
refugees  ? 

The  Magistrate  smiled  at  such  ignorance  of  the  law.     All 
orders  must  come  from  Paddockstown. 
"  That,"  remarked  one  of  the  week-end  visitors  as  the  dis- 
comfited party  shook  the  Magistrate's  dust  off  their  feet, 
"  that  seems  a  futile  old  gentleman  ! " 
This  week-end  visitor  had  an  emphatic  manner  of  speech, 
which  afforded  the  only  relief  in  the  exasperation  of  the 
atmosphere. 

However,  the  affair  managed  to  straighten  itself  out  on, 
again,  true  Gilbertian  lines.  Mrs.  Mutton  duly  found  a 
motor-bus  to  convey  her  to  Paddockstown  /  and  there,  with 
all  the  proper  formality,  interviewed  the  Magistrate  and  a 
lawyer,  with  the  help  of  whom  she  was  separated  from 
her  obstreperous  Mutton.  Little  Jimmy  gave  evidence, 
Mutton  was  advised  by  his  lawyer  not  to  defend  the  case. 
She  has  now  appropriately  joined  forces  with  Mrs.  Caliban 
and  is  enjoying  a  time  of  peace  which  we  trust  may  not 
be  merely  an  interlude. 

"Oh,  Miss!"  she  cried,  describing  these  unwonted 
sensations,  "I'm  that  overjoiced,  I'm  afraid  it's  hardly 
right!" 

As  the  husband  is  hovering  about  the  roads,  waylaying 
all  concerned  with  alarming  politeness,  we  are  a  little 
anxious.  We  know  that  he  is  still  mouton  enrage  at 
heart/  and  we  do  not  know  if  in  spite  of  the  mandate 
from  Paddockstown  the  local  police  would  be  allowed 
to  interfere  were  gun  or  table  knife  to  be  put  into 
requisition. 

187 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 
The  Dorothy  Perkins  are  coming  out,  showing  a  most 
glorious  kind  of  fire  rose,  which  hitherto  they  only  dis- 
played in  the  autumn  after  a  touch  of  frost.     Combined 
with  the  delicate  sprays  of  the 
Ceanothus  Gloire  de  Versailles, 
they  make  in  a  tall  glass  vase 
as   pretty   a   harmony   as  we 
know. 

The  new  Rose  Garden  pro- 
mises complete  success.  Caro- 
line Testout  is  coming  out,  fat 
and  pink  and  smiling  in  her 
usual  good  •  humoured  pro- 
fusion. We  have  a  great  bed 
in  the  shape  of  a  Maltese  cross 
in  the  middle  of  a  stretch  of 
turf  in  this  new  Rose  Garden, 
and  the  other  three  beds  are 
filled  respectively  with  Madame 
Abel  Chatenay/  mixed  yellow 
roses,  among  which  are  Betty, 
Lady  Hillingdon,  and  Juliet, 
are  specially  successful,-  and 
another  deep  pink  charmer 
named  Madame  Jules  Groles.  She  has  not  yet  come  out. 
The  centre  bed  is  devoted  to  General  MacArthur,  with  a 
Crimson  Rambler  pillar. 

The  Climbing  Roses  against  the  arches  that  bound  this 
rose-lawn  north  and  south  are  growing  bravely  /  and  we 
have  lost  our  hearts  to  May  Queen  with  its  mass  of 
bright  pink  flowers,  which,  combined  with  the  fainter, 
188 


THE  NEW  ROSARY 

creamier  pinks  of  Paul  Transon,  make  such  a  delicious 
bouquet  of  bloom,  all  on  the  same  pillar. 
The  hedge  of  Penzance  Briars,  though  only  a  couple  of 
feet  above  the  ground  as  yet,  has  thrown  out  long  lines 
of  starry  blossoms,  shading  from  faint  primrose  to  deepest 
crimson,  with  intermediate  constellations  of  pinks  and 
carmines  that  out-do  both  Dorothy  Perkins  and 
Zephyrine  Drouhin. 

The  new  Rose  Garden  is  shut  off  on  the  west  by  a 
fir-tree  avenue,  and  we  are  trying  to  coax  white  and  red 
Wichurianas  up  the  stems,  in  spite  of  all  expert  pessimism. 
Marquise  de  Sinety  is  a  delicate,  warmly  tinted,  pinky 
cream  Rose.  Catalogues,  no  doubt,  would  call  her 
"  salmon "/  but  it  is  such  a  horrid  word  that  we  prefer 
to  present  the  picture  under  another  aspect. 


Do  not  let  anyone  subject  to  the  watery  caprices  of  an 
English  climate  place  their  trust  in  Maman  Cochet !  Her 
heavy  bud  becomes  hopelessly  sodden  after  anything  like 
a  shower.  One  can  conceive  that  this  dowager  would  be 
a  handsome  enough  object  in  a  southern  garden,  or  that 
she  would  be  a  good  greenhouse  rose/  but,  like  many 
another,  she  does  not  bear  adversity. 
Handsome,  bland  Caroline  Testout  keeps  up  her  self- 
contained  smile  unimpaired  in  fair  and  foul  weather/ 
"  fat-faced  Puss "  that  she  is,  a  very  Gioconda  among 
roses,  even  to  the  close  folding  of  her  plump  leaves,  which 
remind  one  of  that  overrated  charmer's  compact  hands. 
It  would  take  a  good  deal  to  shake  her  equanimity/ 
scentless,  soulless  beauty ! 

189 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

The  Lyons  Rose  has  burst  on  us  this  year  in  all  its 
splendour,  a  most  successful  combination  of  pink  and 
gold.  The  sunset  glow  seems  to  shine  through  the 
petals. 

These  efforts  at  producing  new  effects  are  not  always 
successful,  some  having  a  very  patchy  appearance,  to  our 
mind.  As  for  the  Austrian  Briar,  Soleil  d'Or,  it  is 
more  like  a  blood-orange  cut  in  two  than  anything  else,  in 
colour,  shape,  and  pulpy  texture.  From  a  distance  the 
bright  circles  look  attractive,  but  we  should  recommend 
it  to  no  one  who  values  delicacy  in  their  blooms. 
A  great  success  are  the  Weeping  Standards  Stella. 
Though  it  is  their  first  year,  the  branches  are  covered 
with  lovely  tinted  blossoms  /  and  what  is  more,  these  are 
lasting.  Single  carmine  stars  are  they,  with  golden  centres 
and  a  scent  of  musk. 


The  mistress  of  the  Villino,  a  foolish  and  impetuous 
person,  has  three  times  made  the  same  mistake  and 
omitted  to  ascertain  the  blooming  season  of  plants  which 
she  wished  to  be  in  beauty  together.  So  the  four  Weeping 
Standards  Stella,  are  considerably  in  advance  of  the 
four  Dorothys  which  alternate  with  them/  and  the 
standards  Soleil  d'Or  were  quite  over  before  the 
Conrad  Meyers  appeared  in  the  Lily  Walk/  and 
the  contrast  of  pink  and  yellow  was  what  had  been 
aimed  at ! 

In  the  same  manner  she  had  intended  the  Garland  Roses 
to  foam  up  in  two  splendid  white  pillars  at  each  end  of 
the  long  length  of  Dorothy  Perkins  at  the  opposite  side  of 
190 


FLOWERING  TIMES  AND  PLANS 

the  Blue  Border  terrace.  Of  course  the  Garland  is  be- 
coming unsightly  before  the  fire-pink  of  the  Dorothy  begins 
to  show  in  any  profusion. 


The  garden— except  on  the  upper  terrace,  which  with  Helio- 
trope, Lobelia,  and  the  climbing  Ceanothus  keeps  to  the 
faint  cool  blues,  untroubled  by  the  efflorescence  of  the 
White  Pet  <which,  by  the  way,  has  completely  eaten 
out  Perle  des  Rouges)  and  the  very  faint  pink  of  the 
Ivy-Leaf  Geraniums—except  for  the  upper  terrace,  the 
garden,  we  say,  is  growing  pink.  What  with  the  Ver- 
benas and  the  Red  Roses  and  the  cheery  coloured  Ivy- 
Leaf  Geranium  called  Jersey  Beauty,  in  the  Dutch  garden, 
and  the  general  ramp  of  Dorothy  everywhere,  it  is  a 
mass  of  pink. 

Another  year  we  must  have  more  Penstemons.  They 
are  charming  things,  and  as  good  as  they  are  beautiful. 
In  a  garden  nothing  is  beautiful  that  is  not  good,  which  is 
another  facet  of  its  likeness  to  Paradise. 
We  caress  the  idea  of  a  border  where  perennial  Gypsophila, 
large  bushes  of  Monarda,  Penstemons  and  Lavender  should 
group  and  contrast  and  delight  and  rest  the  eye. 


There  is  a  walk  in  a  wonderful  garden  not  far  from  here— 
a  garden  which  brings  a  kind  of  fainting,  despairing  envy 
to  the  soul  of  Loki's  Grandmother— where  Lavender  and 
Penstemons  make  the  happiest  possible  effect.  The  walk 
itself  is  a  thing  of  beauty  /  through  woodland  on  one  side, 
the  border  in  question  runs  quite  a  long  way  against  a 

191 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

low  parapet  on  the  other.  Below  this  parapet  the  ground 
slopes  down,  and  at  the  end  of  the  walk  there  is  so  abrupt 
a  fall  that  it  seems  almost  to  end  in  mid-air  with  a  vast 
panorama  far  beneath.  And  on  the  side  of  the  flowery 
border  a  shelving  precipice  falls  away  out  of  which  giant 
stone  pines  hang  against  the  distant  horizon.  The  Laven- 
der has  grown  to  a  hedge,  and  the  varying  soft  pinks  of 
the  Penstemons  run  vividly  against  its  mistiness. 
Would  that  walk,  and  that  border,  and  that  view,  were 
ours! 


192 


XXVI 

WR  nearly  had  a  garden  tragedy  yesterday  afternoon. 
The  sounds  of  a  little  dog  in  great  distress  broke  the  peace 
of  the  drowsy  day.  Loki's  Ma-Ma  dashed  out  of  the 
house  thinking  it  was  Loki— caught  in  a  trap !  Certainly 
the  little  dog— whichever  it  was— was  in  desperate  straits. 
"  That's  the  voice  of  my  Betty/'  cried  Juvenal,  galloping 
to  the  rescue  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  "  My  treasure,  my  little 
girl !  Fm  coming ! " 

It  was  well  indeed  that  he  did  hurry,  for  Betty  had  fallen 
into  the  deep  water-butt  in  the  Rose  Garden  /  and  if  she  had 
not  had  the  sense  to  scream  for  help,  and  to  hold  on  to  the 
rim  of  the  barrel  with  all  her  little  claws,  she  would  have 
been  a  drowned  Betty,  and  nobody  the  wiser,  perhaps,  for 
days  and  days. 

We  think  it  would  have  broken  Juvenal's  heart. 
Both  Arabella  and  Loki  were  standing  staring  stiffly  instead 
of  doing  what  was  expected  of  dogs  of  such  intellect : 
which  was  running  to  fetch  human  help. 
On  a  former  occasion  however,  when  Kitty- Wee  had  a  fit, 
poor  little  darling,  Loki  acted  up  to  our  opinion  of  him.  We 
had  gone  for  a  walk  on  the  moor,  and  the  Persian  Princess, 
still  half  in  her  kittenhood,  had  accompanied  us,  with  that 
touching  display  of  pleasure  at  being  in  our  company  which 
makes  the  Fur  Children  so  endearing.  She  had  to  roll  on 
the  grass  in  front  of  us,  sharpen  her  claws  on  every  tree, 
and  rub  her  pretty  head  against  our  skirts  in  the  endeavour 
to  show  her  feelings.  We  suppose  these  feelings  were  too 
much  for  her.  We  had  halted  in  the  greenhouse  when 
Loki  dashed  in  upon  us,  whimpering  in  a  frightful  state  of 

n  193 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

agitation.  He  drew  his  Grandmother  out  of  the  green- 
house, and  rushed  up  to  stand  over  his  little  fur  sister, 
crying  out  loud  in  sympathy  and  distress. 
She  was  a  small  convulsed  heap  upon  the  ground.  For- 
tunately the  tap,  which  ran  into  one  of  those  delectable 
barrels  of  odoriferous  water  so  precious  to  the  garden,  was 
quite  close,  and  we  were  able  to  administer  first  aid  with 
promptitude. 

For  all  who  do  not  know  it :  cold  water  to  the  head  gives 
immediate  relief  to  any  little  creature  in  such  a  seizure. 


She  quite  grew  out  of  them.  But,  alas !  our  thistledown 
Princess,  our  dear  pretty  silver  lady !  We  have  delayed 
to  write  her  sad  fate  into  the  pages  of  the  chronicle  of  the 
happy  Fur  Family.  She  was  stolen !  We  often  lie  awake 
thinking  of  her.  Pampered  as  she  was  /  so  accustomed 
to  be  thought  of,  and  cherished,  and  made  much  of/  to 
have  her  pearly  robe  brushed  and  combed  to  the  last  point 
of  perfection,  her  dainty  appetite  catered  for/  to  find  a 
caress  and  a  cuddle  whenever  she  was  in  the  mood  for  it ! 
A  lurid  mystery  <accompanied  by  a  great  deal  of  hard 
swearing)  envelops  her  loss.  She  was  lost  on  a  half-hour's 
motor-trip  which  her  family,  struck  with  momentary  idiocy, 
was  allowing  her  to  undertake  alone.  She  was,  in  fact, 
about  to  contract  another  matrimonial  alliance  with  a 
prince  of  her  own  race,  and  was  so  securely  packed  in  her 
luxurious  travelling  basket,  so  unmistakably  labelled,  so 
solemnly  handed  over  to  the  care  of  the  conductor  of  the 
motor  'bus,  that  it  did  not  seem  as  if  she  could  come  to 
harm. 
194 


PERSIANS  AND  A  WICKED  WORLD 

But  Blue  Persians,  as  well  as  pink  pearls,  are  over-precious 
chattels  to  confide  to  a  dishonest  world !  The  conductor 
of  the  next  'bus  to  that  by  which  she  was  expected,  handed 
an  empty  basket  to  the  envoy  from  the  other  side  /  and 
when  this  was  refused,  declared  the  cat  had  escaped  on 
the  way.  As  the  basket  was  hermetically  closed,  this  lie 
had  not  even  the  merit  of  being  plausible,  But  puzzle 
succeeded  puzzle  when  the  waiter  from  the  Golf  Club 
House,  a  reliable  witness,  deposed  having  picked  up  the 
same  basket  still  securely  fastened  at  every  corner—but 
minus  the  cat— on  the  first  round  of  the  'bus.  "  It  could 
have  gone  to  Siberia  in  that  basket/'  he  declared,  "  it  was 
that  strong  and  solid!" 

The  local  police,  a  most  intelligent  and  valuable  body  of 
men,  declared  that  nothing  could  be  done,  "  as  no  man 
could  be  taken  up  for  telling  a  lie."  And  the  railway 
company,  after  punching  a  large  hole  in  the  basket, 
announced  that  as  the  cat  was  not  insured,  we  might  sue 
them  for  five  shillings!  We  advertised  and  beat  the 
countryside  in  vain— Kitty  Wee  has  gone  out  of  our  lives. 
If  we  only  knew  that  she  was  happy,  the  ache  at  our 
hearts  would  be  less. 

We  must  fill  the  gap,  and  are  deliberating  whether  a  pair 
of  Blue  Persians,  or  an  orange  couple,  would  afford  us 
the  greater  joy.  We  think  to  decide  on  the  latter  would 
be  less  callous  to  the  memory  of  Kitty  Wee,  and  provide 
perhaps  a  better  match  in  the  little  Villino  that  runs  so 
much  to  orange  and  yellow. 


Never  could  there  be  anything  more  beautiful  than  the 

195 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

St.  John's  Wort  along  the  moorland  roads.  It  has  been  a 
day  of  golden  heat,  the  distant  woods  have  shimmering 
purple  vapours  in  their  hollows,  and  the  hills  are  misty 
blue.  There  had  been  a  fire  last  year  in  a  great  flat 
stretch  of  pinewood  that  runs  into  heather  and  moor,  high 
above  where  the  road  begins  to  fall  into  the  first  of  the 
little  country  towns  between  us  and  London.  The  wood 
had  been  cleared  of  the  dead  trees  and  we  suppose  it  is 
this  which  has  given  encouragement  to  the  great  yellow 
weed.  However  it  may  be,  it  is  a  field  of  cloth  of  gold 
now.  Pines  rise  up  at  intervals  in  their  dark  solemnity. 
Royal  purple  of  the  heather  runs  into  the  gold.  It  is  a 
meeting  of  colour  that  ought  to  be  immortalized. 


196 


XXVII 

TIME  has  run 
away  with  us,  and 
the  garden  chronicle 
has  been  silent.  The 
Ramblers  have 
blazed  in  the  garden, 
more  especially  the 
indefatigable  "Do- 
rothy/7 till  one  has 
grown  almost  tired 
of  such  a  repetition 
of  vivid  pink. 
The  Mistress  of  the 
Villino  has  been 
planning  "  toning- 
down  effects "  for 
next  year  and  means 
to  run  a  border  of 
Catmint  or  Dwarf 
Lavender  against  the 
"  Dorothy  "  hedge. 

The  Lily  Walk,  which  we  shall  have  to  call  by 
another  name,  since,  with  a  few  exceptions,  the  Lilies 
decline  to  have  anything  to  say  to  it,  is,  should  the 
scheme  contemplated  be  successful,  to  show  a  cool 
vista  of  greys,  lavender  blues,  and  "  rose  mourante  " 
behind  the  arch  where  the  same  irrepressible  Perkins 
flaunts  herself  in  such  splendour.  The  Delphiniums, 
which  have  done  so  well  there,  will  have  spent  their 

197 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

hour  of  glorious  life  before  the  arch   enters   upon  its 

triumph. 

What  a  mausoleum  that  Lily  Walk  has  proved  itself!    It 

has  been  one  of  our  tragedies !  Adam  is  quite  dispassionate, 


and  says  "  it's  the  Lily  disease  /  and  there's  a  deal  of  it 
about/7  -J 

By  one'of  those  freakish  /accidents  that  will  occur  in  the 
best  regulated  gardens,  a  batch  of  Fairy  Lilies  was  planted 
behind  the  ramping  Alstrumerias.  This  was  discovered  too 
late,  when  these  bold  Peruvians  were  succumbing. 
But  besides  the  amount  of  sickly,  straggling  "  Candidums," 
" Auratums,"  and  "Tigers"  that  have  disgraced  the 
border,  there  is  the  unaccountable  number  of  bulbs  that 
have  been  swallowed  up  in  it !  The  whole  thing  must 
be  dug  out  this  autumn.  And  the  scheme  is  now  to 
grow  Ceanothus  "  Gloire  de  Versailles  "  up  the  wooden 
trellis  at  the  back  between  the  Roses  the  foliage  of  which 
198 


TONING  DOWN  EFFECTS 

is  always  blighted,  and  to  have  a  pillar  of  Blush  Rambler 
at  the  end,  by  the  side  of  the  Wellingtonia  which  closes 
the  border.  Bushes  of  Ceanothus  Azureas,  as  well  as  the 
successful  "Gloire  de  Versailles "/  a  drift  of  Achillea, 


shading  from  the  palest  pink  to  deep  carmine  /  bushes  of 
Catmint  /  the  new  pale  pink  Spirea,  perennial  Gypsophila  / 
mauve  Galiga  <Salvia,  Miss  Jekyll  recommends)/  Sea 
Lavender  and  a  couple  of  clumps  of  Eringium  will  com- 
plete the  effect.  Perhaps  there  shall  be  Moon  Daisies, 
pale  pink  and  mauve  Penstemons,  and  one  or  two  groups 
of  "Cottage  Maid"  Antirrhinums  to  fill  up  the  gaps. 
But  what  we  feel  is  needed  is  the  grey,  mauve,  silver,  and 
lavender-blue  tinting  against  which  Dorothy  Perkins  may 
be  as  flaming  as  she  likes. 


It  is  rare  to  find  Rose  Achilleas  anywhere. 


Yet  they  are 
199 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

as  pretty  a  thing  as  we  have  ever  seen  in  a  border  /  the 
blossoms  seeming  to  drift  on  their  slender  stems,  one  above 
the  other  like  little  sunset  clouds. 

What  has  been  for  once  a  complete  pleasure  is  the  wide 
bed  under  the  drawing-room  window.  The  Ceanothus— 
which  loves  us— has  been  a  treasure  of  delicate  bloom,- 
and,  against  it,  the  great  old  bushes  of  lavender  have  thrust 
their  spikes  in  profusion.  Just  the  right  tone  to  harmonize. 
Then  the  Longiflorum  Lilies—excellent,  sturdy,  conscien- 
tious darlings !— have  lifted  their  satin  shining  trumpets 
above  the  Heliotrope  that  loves  us  too  /  and  Lobelia,  the 
one  vivid  line  of  colour,  has  rimmed  the  thick  cushion  of 
"Mrs.  Sinkins' "  foliage  most  artistically.  The  grey -green 
gives  the  finishing  touch  to  a  really  reposeful  combination. 
There  are  also  two  or  three  clumps  of  Nicotiana  Affinis, 
softly  mauve,  and  faded  purple  crimson.  To  gaze  at  that 
corner  against  the  amethyst  of  the  moor  is  a  never-ending 
delight. 

But  another  garden  disaster  has  been  the  annihilation  of  all 
the  seedlings  which  we  sowed  in  the  open  border !  It  is 
laughable  now,  but  sad  too,  to  turn  back  the  pages  and 
read  the  vainglorious  project  of  running  a  dazzling  ribbon 
of  Nemophila  against  the  Dorothy  Perkins  hedge.  <It  might 
have  been  frightful  /  so  perhaps  Providence  kindly  inter- 
vened!) But  that  Nigella  "Miss  Jekyll"  should  have 
refused  her  mysterious  and  pretty  presence  in  the  Blue 
Border  is  a  deep  disappointment. 

We  are  again  gnashing  our  teeth  over  the  Blue  Border. 
The  fact  is,  we  suppose,  it  is  too  much  to  expect  beauty 
all  the  year  round,  no  matter  how  boastfully  garden  writers 
inform  you  of  their  artifices  in  that  direction  :  how  cleverly, 
200 


A  CHAPTER  OF  DISASTERS 

for  instance,  the  annual  Gypsophila  will  bury  the  unsightly 
decay  of  the  Iris  leaves,  or  how  you  can  pull  branches  of 
"  Miss  Mellish  "  down  over  the  Delphiniums. 
Why  do  not  our  Delphiniums  bloom  twice  ?  Every  garden 
book  and  every  catalogue  cheers  your  heart  by  promising 
a  handsome  second  bloom  to  the  industrious  clipper-off  of 
seed-pods.  But  never  a  Delphinium  has  responded  to  our 
kind  attentions  in  that  direction.  Perhaps  our  soil  does 
not  give  them  strength  enough  for  such  exertion.  But  it  is 
idle  speculating.  One  must  learn  what  one's  garden  will 
do  and  what  it  won't  do— and  make  the  best  of  it. 


The  greatest  of  all  the  tragedies  that  have  befallen  us 

lately  is  indubitably  the  passing  away  of  poor  old  Tom. 

We  are  now  catless ! 

Poor  little  friend !    Where  has  that  quaint,  faithful,  dutiful 

identity  gone  to?    Juvenal  says  Heaven  would  not  be 

Heaven  to  him  if  he  were  not  to  meet  his  own  dogs  there— 

a  sentiment  which   we  have,  we  believe,  ourselves  set 

down  elsewhere.    St.  Francis  the  Poverello  saw  God  in 

all  His  lesser  creatures.     It  is  not  possible  to  think  that 

we  shall  lose  anything  in  a  completer  world. 

Tom  was  the  most  conscientious  of  cats.    He  now  lies 

beside  Susan.    We  are  going  to  get  two  little  tombstones 

made  for  us  by  the  Watts  Settlement  at  Compton.  Susan's 

epitaph   has  already  been  mentioned.    Nothing  more  to 

the  point  could  be  imagined : 

"  Here  lies  Susan,  a  good  dog."    "  Here  lies  Thomas,  for 

eighteen  years  our  faithful  cat-comrade." 

So  shall  it  stand  recorded  over  the  new  grave. 

201 


XXVIII 

MID- AUGUST  and  the  lists  beginning  to  come  in !  Mr. 
Eden  Phillpotts,  in  his  delightful  garden  book,  says  that  no 
one  is  a  true  garden  lover  who  is  not  instantly  lost  in 
every  nurseryman's  list,  who  does  not  immediately  draw 
out  orders  far  beyond  his  means,  and  spend  his  time  in 
plans  and  combinations  that  shall  transcend  Kew  as  well 
as  Babylon.  What  garden  lovers  are  we  in  this  respect  \ 
It  is  only  when  the  orders  are  written  out  and  the  prices 
totted  up  that  sober  reason  obtrudes  its  forbidding 
countenance—and  then  the  painful  process  of  ''knocking 
off"  begins.  Nevertheless  we  are  becoming  adepts  in 
combining  lavishness  with  economy,  There  are  delightful 
firms  whose  plants  are  literally  to  be  had  at  a  quarter 
of  the  price  of  others,  with  results  quite  as  happy. 
There  is  the  Dutchman  who  sends  us  our  bulbs.  He  has 
grown  to  be  a  friend,  and  his  English  letters  are  charming, 
"Dear  Mrs./'  he  wrote  when  Gladioli,  "The  Bride/' 
arrived  in  a  state  no  Bride  should  be  in,  really  without  a 
wedding  garment-—"  Dear  Mrs.,  She  is  a  flower  the  most 
agreeable  in  the  garden,  but  she  is  very  unpleasant  to 
travel/' 

His  catalogue  makes  equally  fascinating  reading.  The 
quaint  spelling  and  phraseology  are  more  than  attractive. 
Who,  for  instance,  would  not  wish  to  invest  in  Narcissus, 
thus  described : 

"  Astrardente,  white  and  apricot  orange,  edged  fiery  scarlet 
magnificent  and  nice  flowers." 

"  Nothing/'  says  another  grower,  "  can  equal,  much  less 
excel,  early  single  Tulips." 
202 


DUTCH  BULBS 

"  Pottebakke  White/7  cries  a  third,  "  is  a  very  large  pure 
white  flower,  and  not  to  surpass  better/7 
"Of  snow-like  variety  and  delicious  fragrance  a  most 
beloved  flower/7  thus  our  special  Hollander  labels  Lilium 
Longiflorum  Takesima,  in  words  that    have   a  certain 
charm  of  poetic  simplicity  which  would  not  have  mis- 
become the  artistic  Japanese  himself. 
However  tempted  by  other  nationalities,  we  choose  to  be 
Dutch  in   our    bulbs.      This  is  the   list  we  have  just 
dispatched  to  Haarlem : 

"  600  China  blue  single  Hyacinths. 
1  dozen  Cavaignac  pink  Hyacinths. 
1  dozen  Fabiola  blush  Hyacinths. 
50  Roman  Hyacinths. 
100  Scarlet  Due  van  Thol  Tulips. 
50  Rose  Due  van  Thol  Tulips. 
300  Thomas  Moore  Tulips. 
1000  Darwin  Tulips,  best  mixed. 
500  Parrot  Tulips,  in  the  finest  mixture,  bright  colours. 
100  Gladiolus  Brenchlyensis. 
100  Gladiolus  Hollandia. 
1000  mixed  striped  Crocus. 
1000  Scilla  Siberica  praecox. 
1000  blue  Grape  Hyacinths. 
1000  Snowdrops  Rlweseii. 
1000  Poeticus  recurvus  Narcissus. 
100  Hyacinthus  Candicans. 
1 000  Single  Trumpet  Daffodils  mixed. 
500  Double  Daffodils  mixed.77 

Of  these  some  of  the  scarlet  and  rose  "  Due  van  Thol " 
Tulips,  and  all  the  "  Cavaignac "  and  "Fabiola77  Hya- 
cinths are  for  forcing  /  and,  of  course,  the  Roman  Hyacinths 
also.  The  other  bulbs  are  destined  for  the  open  ground. 

203 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

Gladiolus  Hollandia  is  described  as  the  "  Pink  Brench- 
lyensis/'  and  is  much  recommended.  We  have  never 
grown  her  yet,  but  her  scarlet  cousin  is  a  great  success 
in  our  garden.  We  find  our  Gladioli  do  so  much  better 
when  planted  in  the  spring,  that  we  are  asking  the  firm  not 
to  send  them  to  us  for  another  seven  months.  But  they 
are  included  in  the  autumn  list  so  that  he  may  reserve  us 
good  sound  tubers. 

It  is  evidently  against  garden  decorum  to  mention  the  name 
of  a  horticulturist,  for  some  garden  writers  make  a  point 
of  assuring  the  reader  that  they  will  never  be  guilty  of  such 
an  indiscretion  /  but  we  see  no  harm  at  all  in  paying,  by 
the  way  of  this  discursive  pen,  a  tribute  to  the  perfect 
satisfaction  hitherto  afforded  us  by  our  chosen  bulb  grower, 
Mr.  Thoolen,  of  Haarlem.  His  Tulips,  Hyacinths,  and 
Narcissi  have  stood  the  test  for  three  years.  Of  course, 
in  our  soil  we  cannot  expect  more  than  one  good  season 
out  of  anything  except  Crocus,  Scilla,  and  Narcissi. 
Daffodils,  which  up  till  now  have  been  unaccountably 
absent  from  our  garden  plans,  are  to  be  heavily  indulged 
in  this  year.  Besides  what  appears  in  the  above  list  we 
are  venturing  on  another  thousand  from  a  certain  Mr. 
Telkamp,  likewise  in  the  land  of  windmills. 
The  following  is  the  order  which  we  have  just  dispatched 
to  him : 

"  1000  Daffodils  for  naturalization. 
100  Retroflexa  Tulips,  soft  yellow. 
100  Bouton  d'Or  Tulips,  deep  golden  yellow. 
100  Caledonia  Tulips,  orange,  dark  stems. 
1 00  Golden  Eagle  Tulips,  fine  yellow. 
200  Count  of  Leicester,  yellow  orange  tinted/7 
204 


MORE  DUTCH  BULBS 

He  advertises  a  thousand  Daffodils  for  ten  shillings— two 
and  a  half  dollars !  Miraculous,  if  true !  It  is  worth  the 
plunge. 


We  have  decided  to  take  a  slice  off  the  kitchen  garden  to 
be  kept  entirely  for  bulbs  and  tubers  for  cutting.  There  a 
hundred  "  Madonna "  Lilies,  three  dozen  Auratum,  a 
hundred  Tigrinum,  and  a  few  hundreds  of  other  kinds 
shall  be  given  all  the  chances  that  completely  fresh  soil 
and  good  exposure  can  afford.  Five  hundred  Parrot 
Tulips,  three  hundred  "  Thomas  Moore,"  and  a  hundred 
"  Bizarres  "  are  to  make  a  field  of  glory  for  the  harvest. 
The  hundred  Gladiolus  Brenchlyensis  and  the  hundred 
Hollandia  will  rear  their  scarlet  and  pink  spears  /  and  Iris 
shall  stand  in  ranks. 

The  Mistress  of  the  Villino  has  still  an  hour  of  bliss 
before  her  in  picking  out  Iris  for  her  list.  The  "Florentina" 
shall  certainly  be  largely  of  the  company,  and  preference 
is  to  be  given  generally  to  the  misty  blue  and  purple  kinds. 
Then  the  speculation  in  cheap  bulbs  provides  a  thousand 
mixed  May  flowering  Tulips.  .  .  .  Adam's  face  will  be  a 
study  when  he  finds  how  much  of  his  cherished  potato 
and  cabbage  land  will  be  required.  But  what  a  span  of 
beauty  it  will  make  /  and  what  sheaves  of  delight  for  our- 
selves and  our  friends ! 

Kvery  year  the  extravagant  woman  above  mentioned, 
who  has  got  the  vice  of  garden-gambling  into  her  very 
system,  extends  her  ambitions.  But  how  much  is  there  not 
still  to  be  accomplished  before  she  is  satisfied,  if  ever  a 
garden-lover  is  satisfied ! 

205 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

For  a  long  time  she  has  dreamt  of  a  shady  pool—some- 
where. And,  after  beholding  the  adorable  vision  before 
described  in  Messrs.  Wallace's  exhibit  at  Holland  House 
this  summer,  she  had  been  quite  sure  that  it  would  be 
difficult  to  exist  another  year  without  a  nook  with  Irises 
about  it  and  a  sunk  basin,  and  a  little  statue  mysteriously 
contrived  in  the  green.  Coming  across  an  advertisement 
in  Country  Life,  where  an  artistic  firm  of  garden-decorators 
offers  just  what  she  wants,  a  small  round  stone  pond  with 
a  Faun  sitting  cross-legged  on  the  brim  of  it,  it  becomes 
quite  clear  to  her  that  there  are  cravings  which  must  be 
satisfied.  She  is  willing  to  give  up  the  vision  of  a  new 
Azalea  dell  <for  this  year  only,  of  course)  and  of  a  paved 
walk  with  Cypresses  on  each  side,  ending  in  a  rondpoint 
hedged  about  with  more  Cypresses,  with  a  stone  bench  in 
the  middle,  for  the  more  immediately  alluring  claim.  But, 
O,  ye  g°ds  and  little  fishes,  how  insatiable  are  still  the 
needs  of  the  Villino  on  the  hill ! 

There  is  the  orchard  for  the  slope  above  the  sunk  tennis 
court  /  to  be  a  glory  some  Spring  with  Apple  and  Pear 
blossom,  while  Daffodils,  Narcissi  and  Scilla  riot  under- 
neath. And  there  is  the  round  Autumn  Garden  to  be 
dug  out  and  levelled  in  the  wood,  where  Sunflowers, 
Michaelmas  Daisies,  "Fire  King"  Antirrhinums,  Nas- 
turtiums and  flaunting  orange  and  saffron  Dahlias  are  to 
make  a  rim  of  splendour  against  a  cropped  green  hedge- 
The  centre  of  this  blazing  circle  is  to  be  flagged  and 
consecrated  to  "Herbs."  That  will  be  something  to 
live  for/  to  see  accomplished  some  golden  autumn  of 
the  future ! 


206 


FOND  DREAMS,  AND  MISDOUBTS 

So  much  has  already  been  done  in  what  was,  most  of  it, 
a  mere  sodden  tangle,  impenetrable  not  only  to  human 
beings  but  even  to  the  light  of  heaven,  that  it  gives  one 
heart  for  what  may  be  achieved  in  the  future.  Vet  never 
does  the  Grandmother  of  Loki  feel  the  uncertainty  of  life 
more  keenly  than  when  she  is  in  the  midst  of  her  garden 
dreams.  Every  winter  indeed,  when  the  bulbs  are  planted, 
she  wonders,  with  a  pang,  if  she  will  see  them  come  up  in 
the  Spring/  how  much  more  does  she  now  ask  herself 
whether  the  hidden  Autumn  Garden,  or  the  Italian  walk, 
or  the  Bowery  Orchard,  or  even  the  Sunk  Fountain,  are 
ever  destined  to  rejoice  her. 

Well,  after  all,  she  gets  an  extraordinary  amount  of 
pleasure  out  of  the  mere  mental  picture,  and  who  can  say 
if  the  very  uncertainty  of  all  things  here  below  does  not 
add  to  their  zest  ? 


207 


XXIX 

THIS  morning,  waking  at  dawn,  the  Padrona  was  impelled 
to  roll  out  of  bed,  and  look  out  of  both  her  windows. 
The  one  over  her  balcony  gives  down  the  valley  and  th  e 
one  opposite  her  bed  affords  her  vision 
of  the  moor  rolling  away  beyond  the 
Dutch  Garden 
and  the  ter- 
race corner.  - 
If  she  had 

been  but  a  woman  of  mo- 
derate vigour,  she  would  not  have  gone  to 
bed  again  till  the  whole  pageant  of  mysterious  glory  had 
fulfilled  itself  before  her  eyes.  For  what  a  sight  it  was  ! 
First  of  all,  the  whole  garden,  woodland  and  heather 
hills  were  steeped  in  a  translucence  for  which  there  is  no 
name.  It  is  a  virgin  hour,  and  its  purity  no  words  can 
describe.  The  Ling,  in  full  bloom,  was  silver  and  amethyst 
on  the  rise,  misty  purple  and  blue  in  the  hollows.  Behind 
the  shouldering  hills  a  rift  of  sky  was  a  radiant  lemon- 
yellow,  a  kind  of  honey  sea  of  light.  And  above  that, 
again,  little  drifts  of  cloud  had  caught  a  wonderful  orange- 
rose  glow  like  the  wings  of  cherubim  about  the  Throne. 
Down  the  valley  there  were  silver  mists  against  the  most 
tender,  clear  horizon/  and  all  along  the  Lily  Walk  the 
clumps  of  Tiger  Lilies  seemed  to  be  like  little  Fra  Angelico 
angels,  holding  their  breath  in  adoration ! 
Everything  lies,  after  all,  in  the  point  of  view.  The  dawn 
was  decidedly  too  pink  for  safety,  and  the  clumps  of  Lilies 
that  looked  so  pious  and  recollected  have  got  "  the  disease  " 
208 


THE  MOORS 


)'QM 


DAWN  OVER  THE  MOOR 

badly  in  their  stalks.     Vet  realism  can  never  blight  that 
exquisite  hour  of  breaking  day  in  her  thoughts  ! 
The  only  time  we  degenerates  ever  really  see  the  dawn  is 
coming  home  from  some  London  ball  ,•  or  again,  travelling. 
The  dawn  in  London  often  gives  an  impression  of  extra- 


ncWV^^T*        0    ^ 

frvT         /*£*  ^f, 

•  /  p^^,.x 

ordinary  blue  in  atmosphere  and  heaven,  we  suppose 
because  it  is  seen  contrasted  with  artificial  illuminations. 
But  that  sapphire  blue,  when  it  permeates  park  and  streets, 
when  the  sky  seems  to  hold  unplumbed  depths  beyond 
depths  of  the  same  wonderful  colour,  is  a  thing  to  dwell  in 
the  memory  likewise,  though  travellers  have  the  better  part. 
Dawn  in  the  Alps !  A  night  not  to  be  depicted  !  Such 
vastness  of  tinted  heights  /  such  black  chasms  where  the 
pines  hang/  spume  of  waterfalls  all  golden  crimson,  and 
deep  rivers,  green  and  terrible  and  beautiful  with  a  glint 
on  them  as  they  rush ! 

One  of  us  <the  fourth  in  the  lucky  clover  leaf  at  Villino 
Loki  /  one  who  is  poet  and  musician  besides  many  other 
things,  and  sometimes  poet  and  musician  together)  has 
defined  the  indefinable.  It  is  not  the  dawn  of  the  day  she 
hymns,  but  the  dawn  of  the  young  Spring. 

o  209 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

Though  the  poem  is  printed  in  a  recently  published  volume, 
it  seems  to  fit  naturally  into  this  page. 

THE  ST.  GOTHARD 

April  and  1 — 

Each  with  each  greeting  amid  tumbled  ice, 
Travel  these  wastes  of  frozen  purity. 
Here  the  wild  air  above  the  precipice 
E'en  tasteth  sweet,  and  hath  a  delicate  scent 
As  of  faint  flowers  unseen — the  flower  of  snows 
Massed  peak  on  peak  in  slumber  yet  unspent, 
But  dreaming  of  the  Rose. 

Here  the  great  hills  wear  silence  as  a  seal — 

April  and  I, 

Listening  can  hear  the  loosened  snowflake  steal 
Down  from  the  burdened  bough  that  slips  awry  ; 
Here  the  long  cry  of  water-nymphs  at  play 
Freezes  upon  the  iced  lips  of  fountains, 
And  their  sweet  limbs  arrested  holiday 
In  crystal  carved  engarlandeth  the  mountains. 

Through  such  vast  fields  of  sleep  how  dare  we  roam, 

April  and  1, 

And  from  its  eyrie  bid  the  torrent  foamt 
And  virgin  meads  grow  starrier  than  the  slty 
With  scattered  cowslip  and  with  drifted  bell? 
Or  where  austerely  looms  an  Alpine  giant 
Set  a  young  almond  rosily  defiant 
To  be  our  sentinel? 
210 


THE  DAWN  OF  yOUNG  SPRING 

Whence  are  we  victors,  chanting  as  we  go, 

April  and  I. 

"  Be  free,  ye  tumbling  streams,  aioake  0  snow — 
Ye  silver  blooms  increase  and  multiply" 
What  is  our  spell? — The  singing  heart  we  bring, 
And  lo  !  that  song  that  is  the  core  of  earth 
Leaps  in  reply,  and  children  of  the  Spring 
Into  the  light  come  forth. 

Then  there  was  a  dawn  over  the  Campagna,  seen  from 
the  train  that  was  speeding  us  towards  Rome.  A  ball  of 
red  fire  hung  over  the  horizon.  The  sea  lay  silver  and 
grey  /  and  misty  silver  the  Campagna.  ..."  God  made 
himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn/'  as  Tennyson  sings.  He 
did  that  morning :  awful,  yet  full  of  a  glorious  comfort. 
The  sea  just  caught  the  great  reflection  on  its  bosom. 
A  little  later,  when  we  came  to  the  first  ruins  that  precede 
the  aqueducts,  there  were  the  white  cattle,  stepping  about 
among  the  broken  pillars,  with  their  huge  spreading  horns 
all  gilded.  These  had  not  changed  since  the  days  when 
the  sun  gleamed  on  the  grandeurs  of  classic  Rome.  Only 
then  yonder  building—temple,  or  tomb,  or  villa—fronted 
the  morning  with  a  forgotten  stateliness,  a  lost  grace. 
Is  anything  comparable  to  the  scene  that  meets  the  traveller 
on  his  entry  into  Rome?  Alas!  St.  John  Lateran  no 
longer  stands  like  some  titanic  splendid  ship  about  to  slip 
her  moorings  and  sail  away  into  the  wild,  lonely  sea  of  the 
Campagna.  New  walls  have  sprung  up  without  the  noble 
ancient  walls/  sordid  disjointed  lengths  of  streets,  mean 
houses  with  blistered,  leprous  plaster,-  and  evil-looking 
little  wine-shops.  Nevertheless,  nothing  can  spoil  ithe 

211 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

moment  when  the  Lateran  Church  first  gathers  shape 
against  the  sky.  All  those  statues  with  tossing  gesture 
against  the  faint  blue  of  the  new  day,  heroic  figures  with 
outstretched  arms  seeming  to  gather  pilgrims  into  the  city  ,• 
and  in  the  midst  of  them  the  Saviour  uplifting  the  Cross  of 
Salvation !  To  the  believer  what  a  welcome !  And  it  is 
Rome  herself  at  a  glance,  too  /  for  if  the  Church  stands 
here  beckoning  between  earth  and  sky,  she  is  jostled  below 
and  round  about  by  the  still  speaking  wonders  of  old  Pagan 
Rome. 


212 


XXX 

ONE  of  the  advantages  of  being  "  little  people  in  a  little 
place "  is  the  pleasure  small  things  can  give  one.  The 
Duke  of  Devonshire  has  seventy  men  in  his  garden.  Is  it 
possible  to  imagine  taking  an  interest  in  anything  conducted 
on  so  enormous  a  scale  ?  It  is  not  gardening,  it  is  horti- 
cultural government !  There  can  be  no  individual  know- 
ledge of  any  "  beloved  flower/'  as  our  Dutch  friend  has  it. 
Outside  a  millionaire's  greenhouse  we  once  beheld  regiment 
after  regiment  of  Begonia  pots.  It  made  one's  brain  reel. 
How  insupportable  anything  so  repeated  would  become ! 
Even  in  small  gardens  there  is  too  much  of  a  tendency 
nowadays  to  overdo  garden  effects.  The  flagged-path 
effect  can  certainly  be  overdone.  We  were  tempted  to 
visit  a  farmhouse  the  other  day,  adorably  placed  on  a  high 
Sussex  down  just;  where  a  stretch  of  table-land  dominates 
an  immense  panorama  of  undulating  country,  and  a  vast 
half-circle  of  horizon.  With  a  few  more  trees  no  situation 
could  have  been  more  beautiful. 

"  It  was  a  party  of  the  name  of  Mosensohn "  who  had 
taken  the  old  farmhouse,  we  are  told,  and  they  were  trans- 
mogrifying it  according  to  the  most  modern  principles  of 
how  the  plutocrat's  farmhouse  should  look. 
In  some  ways  it  was  very  well  done.  The  fine  old  lines 
of  wall  and  roof  were  carefully  preserved  /  the  high  brick 
wall  with  its  arched  doorway  and  door  with  the  grille  in 
it,  were  quite  in  keeping,  and  gave  one  a  sense  of  com- 
fortable seclusion  as  one  stepped  in  off  the  high  road. 
But  the  square  court,  once  the  farmyard,  divided  by  two 
different  levels,  was  completely  flagged.  Only  a  few  beds 

213 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

against  the  wall,  and  a  strip  of  turf  on  the  lower  level  under 
the  house,  afforded  any  relief  to  the  eye.  There  was  a 
sunk  garden  beyond  which  was  turfed,  and  the  sense  of 
rest  it  instantly  afforded  made  one  realize  what  the  incom- 
ing family  will  suffer  on  a  scorching  August  day  from  the 
glare  and  refractions  of  the  flags  in  a  space  so  hemmed  in. 
In  the  right  spirit  of  garden  mania,  we  were  not  above 
taking  what  hints  we  could.  And  some  were  very  good. 
All  the  beds  on  that  first  level  were  planted  with  cool- 
looking  blue  and  purple  flowers— a  happy  thought  where 
there  was  so  much  hot  stone.  And  the  old  cow  stables 
had  been  very  cleverly  converted  into  a  most  Italian-looking 
brick  pergola  which  ran  the  length  of  the  sunk  Rose 
Garden,  and  ended  in  a  round  summer-house  with  a  win- 
dow. From  there,  as  well  as  from  the  Rose  Garden,  the 
wide  view  over  the  Downs  met  the  gaze.  Vividly  coloured 
herbaceous  borders  ran  along  the  side  nearest  to  the  sud- 
den slope  of  the  hill.  There  is  something  very  pleasing  to 
the  senses  when  the  glance  passes  from  such  an  ordered 
kaleidoscope  of  colour  to  the  misty  vastness  of  a  far- 
reaching  view. 

In  the  middle  of  the  Rose  Garden  was  a  sunk  fountain  in 
a  long  narrow  basin. 

A  batch  of  pinewood,  dark  and  shady,  would  have  saved 
the  situation ,-  one  sought  everywhere  for  the  comfort  of 
real  shadows. 

We  went  into  the  house,  which  was  in  the  act  of  being 
papered  and  painted  for  the  millionaires.  Delightful  in 
theory  as  such  old  buildings  are,  we  were  seized  with  doubt 
from  the  moment  of  crossing  the  threshold  whether  any 
sense  of  quaint  antiquity  would  compensate  one  for  beams 
214 


CONVERTING  A  COTTAGE 

on  top  of  one's  head,  for  bedrooms  the  size  of  a  bath- 
towel,  and  a  general  feeling  of  having  one  foot  on  the 
hearth  and  another  in  the  passage.  We  thought  the  new- 
comers had  shown  more  taste  outside,  and  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  some  one  else's  taste  ruled  in  the  garden, 
but  that  they  had  allowed  their  own  ideas  free  scope 
indoors.  These  ideas  were  monotonous.  The  parlour 
that  gave  on  the  little  orchard  had  a  paper  all  over  green 
parrots  /  the  best  bedroom  upstairs  had  a  paper  all  over 
blue  parrots  /  and  the  second  best  bedroom  was  adorned 
with  terra-cotta  parrots.  The  only  chance  for  a  con- 
glomeration of  rooms  so  hopelessly  low  and  contracted, 
would  have  been  a  plain  distemper  of  no  tint  deeper  than 
cream,  or  at  the  outside  butter  colour.  Then  the  old 
beams  would  have  had  a  chance,  and  one  might  have  felt 
able  to  draw  one's  breath. 

<Fancy  waking  in  the  morning  to  the  dance  of  all  the  little 
parrots  on  top  of  one's  eyelids  !> 

Then,  out  of  a  small  space,  the  shapes  of  trees  and 
flower-beds  beyond  come  upon  the  vision  with  no  sense  of 
effect  if  the  space  within  is  tormented.  Neither  can  any- 
one have  any  proper  appreciation  of  the  joy  of  a  bunch 
of  flowers,  or  a  vase  of  spreading  boughs,  who  has  not 
set  them  against  plain  walls  where  their  shadows  have 
play. 


Another  little  house  near  here—set  down  in  the  valley 
this,  on  the  edge  of  a  hamlet,  overlooking  a  wide  pond—has 
been  to  our  thinking  more  successfully  dealt  with.  Three 
very  old  cottages  have  been  knocked  into  one,  and  the 

215 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

whole  little  rambling  up-and-down  dwelling-place  thus  pro- 
duced has  been  boldly  distempered  white  within  from 
roof  to  kitchen.  The  round  black  oak  beams  are  delightful 
in  these  little  white  rooms,  and  the  pretty,  blue-eyed,  still 
youthful  spinster  who  owns  them  has  been  content  with  a 
short  pair  of  clear  white  muslin  curtains  in  every  window  / 
not,  be  it  understood,  the  London  bedroom  kind  that  cuts 
across  the  pane  <an  abomination  difficult  to  avoid  in 
towns),  but  proper  curtains  hanging  over  the  recess. 
Nothing  more  suitable  could  be  devised,  and  it  took  a 
"real  lady/'  in  the  sense  of  Hans  Andersen's  "Real 
Princess/7  to  be  content  with  such  fresh  simplicity.  But 
attractive  as  her  furnishing  is,  and  full  of  genuinely  beau- 
tiful things,  there  our  tastes  slightly  diverged. 
The  largest  sitting-room  has  a  set  of  black  lacquer  fur- 
niture inlaid  with  vivid  mother-of-pearl/  it  is  deliciously 
gay  in  this  gay  cottage  parlour,  and  certainly  no  one  who 
possessed  these  early  Victorian  treasures  could  bear  to 
put  them  on  one  side.  We  think  if  we  had  been  the  lucky 
owner,  however,  we  would  have  eschewed  coupling  them 
with  velvet— or,  indeed,  brought  velvet  at  all  under  those 
weather-beaten  tiles.  The  mistress  of  the  Villino  had  a 
vision—a  daring  vision— of  printed  linen  with  scarlet  cherries 
and  impossible  birds  pecking  at  them  /  something  with  a 
true  Jacobean  angularity  in  it,  to  link  the  centuries  to- 
gether, and  an  uncompromising  vividness  of  tint.  That  for 
cushions  and  sofa-covers.  On  the  floor  then,  no  bright 
carpet  would  be  admitted.  We  should  have  enamelled 
that  floor  white,  and  cast  a  few  rugs  down  on  it,  with  no 
more  colours  in  them  than  faint  lemons  and  greys  or 
creams. 
216 


COTTAGE  FURNITURE 

To  complete  this  discursion  on  cottages,  some  or  us 
visited  the  other  day  a  tiny  house,  where  all  the  down- 
stairs rooms,  except  the  kitchen,  had 
been  thrown  together,  making  a 
charming,  long,  low  living-room  with 
one  great  black  beam  across  the 
ceiling.  On  the  walls  was  a  perfect 
cottage  paper,  with  isolated  pink 
rose-buds  well-distanced  from  each 
other:  a  pink  rosebud  chintz  and 
black  carpet  dotted  with  faint  stiff 
roses,  made  quaint  and  unusual  but 
very  satisfying  arrangement.  The 
windows  looked  out  on  a  pine  wood 
across  a  hedge  of  rampant  pink 
Dorothy  Roses.  Gazing  out  on 
the  dim,  dark  green  grey  aisles  of 
the  fir  trees  one  would  want  the 
gay  note  within  /  and  the  little  Rose- 
strewn  paper  was  perfection. 


Yesterday  the  Grandfather  of  Loki 

dragged  the    Grandmother  in   her 

bath-chair  out  into  the  heart  of  the 

moors.     It's  a  sporting  bath-chair 

this.     It  has  been  over  as  much  rough  ground  as  a  horse 

artillery  gun-carriage,  and  nothing  in  the  matter  of  obstacles 

stops  it  unless  it  is  barbed  wire  /  it  was  chosen  as  light  in 

make  as  possible,  and  now  it  has  a  rakish,  weather-beaten 

appearance,  like  an  old  mountain  mule. 

217 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

The  rare  strangers  we  meet  on  our  wild  career  regard  us 
with  varied  sentiments.  Some  are  obviously  filled  with 
compassion  over  the  joggling  the  occupant  of  the  bath- 
chair  must  be  enduring.  "  What  can  that  fool  of  a  man 
be  about  to  expose  that  wretchedly  delicate  woman  to 
such  suffering  ?  "  their  expression  says  to  us  as  they  pass. 
Others,  on  the  other  hand,  are  horror-stricken  at  the  spec- 
tacle of  the  wifely  brutality  that  condemns  this  weakly, 
good-natured  man  to  the  task  of  lugging  her  about.  There 
is  a  good  deal  of  uphill  work,  of  course,  about  us,  and  he 
goes  a  good  pace.  "  YOU  ought  to  get  a  donkey, 
Madam/'  is  their  conclusion. 

On  two  or  three  occasions  good  Samaritans  have  rushed 
to  assist  him,  with  glances  of  scathing  rebuke  at  this  new 
embodiment  of  woman's  tyranny. 

But  they  are  some  of  our  best  days,  in  spite  of  outside 
disapproval.  And,  to  go  back  to  yesterday,  we  started 
off  with  all  the  dogs  in  a  state  of  "  high  cockalorum  "— 
Arabella  in  her  most  obsequious  mood  <having  been 
scolded  the  day  before  for  running  away)/  Loki,  the 
Chinaman,  trotting  on  in  determined  and  splendid  isolation 
as  usual,  it  being  quite  against  Chinese  etiquette  to  speak 
to  any  fur-brother  outside  the  garden  gates ,-  Betty,  and  her 
father  Laddie,  secretly  determined  to  go  hunting,  no  matter 
what  execrations  should  be  hurled  after  them.  Laddie 
comes  from  a  neighbouring  house,  and  insists  on  adopting 
us  as  his  family.  It  is  very  hard  to  be  brutal  and  say  that 
we  won't  be  adopted  when  a  pair  of  the  most  beautiful 
cairngorm  eyes  in  all  the  world  are  looking  up  at  us  out  of 
the  dear  long,  wise,  pathetic  dog  face.  In  fact,  we  are  not 
brutal ,-  and  Laddie  comes  and  goes  as  he  likes.  Only  he 
218 


BATH  CHAIR  AND  HEATHER 

is  occasionally  carried  back  to  his  cook  <who,  it  seems, 
duly  loves  him)  by  Juvenal  the  tender-hearted. 
It  is  very  difficult  to  reach  the  moors,  with  this  discursive- 
ness !  But,  in  a  sunshine  as  blazing  as  that  which  ever 
fell  from  any  Italian  sky,  we  did  get  into  the  hollow  of  the 
heather  hills,  and  there  spend  an  afternoon  of  perfect 
dreaminess  and  pleasure. 

Loki's  Grandfather  took  off  his  coat  and  marched  up  the 
slippery  paths,  the  bath-chair  bumping  merrily  after  him. 
It  is  one  of  his  male  prerogatives  to  scorn  the  idea  of 
sunstroke,  and  Loki's  Grandmother  is  filled  with  appre- 
hensions half  the  time.  But  when  she  saw  him  stretched 
on  a  rug  over  the  heather,  smoking  his  pipe,  and  the  four 
dogs  cast  themselves  down  in  attitudes  expressive  of  their 
different  natures,  the  mental  horizon  became  cloudless. 
The  material  skies—if  such  an  adjective  can  be  used  in 
such  connexion— the  unplumbed  dome  of  mystery  above 
us,  were  by  no  means  cloudless,  and  that  was  part  of  their 
wonderful  beauty.  Huge  lazy  white  clouds,  so  luminous 
as  to  be  dazzling,  sailed  over  the  rim  of  the  moor  and  cast 
shadows  of  indescribable  mauve  and  purple  into  the  hollows. 
A  day  of  such  intense  light  it  was  that  every  tree  in  the 
thick  of  the  woods  flung  its  patch  of  shadow,  purple-dark 
against  the  vivid  green.  And,  oh,  the  colour  of  the  Ling, 
mixed  with  Hill  Heather,  set  with  islands  of  Bracken- 
Bracken  in  its  proper  place— silver  under  the  sun  rays, 
against  the  blue !  And  the  scent  of  the  Heath  and  the 
Whin! 

One  doesn't  know  if  it  is  exactly  one's  soul  that  the 
beauty  touches,  the  appeal  is  so  strongly  to  the  senses. 
But  the  soul  is  of  it/  for  no  mere  physical  joy  can  give 

219 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

such  a  serenity,  such  an  airiness  as  of  wings  to  the  spirit. 
Mr.  A.  C.  Benson  says,  in  some  early  book  of  his,  that 
one  of  the  great  proofs  to  him  of  the  existence  of  God  is 
the  feeling  which  comes  at  the  sight  of  a  very  beautiful 
prospect.  We  want  to  give  ourselves  to  it— he  says— to 
be  absorbed  into  it  /  and  that  is  a  movement  of  the  soul, 
for  everything  earthly  is  possessive. 


Arabella,  who  is  a  very  affectionate  dog,  flung  herself 
down  beside  her  master,  taking  up  a  large  share  of  the  rug, 
and  pensively  chewed  gorse  half  the  time,  the  other  half 
being  absorbed  in  extracting  its  prickles  from  her  chest. 
Laddie,  of  course,  slipped  off  to  the  chase.  The  two  little 
dogs,  russet  brother  and  little  white  sister,  whiled  away  a 
period  of  inaction :  Betty,  by  circling  round  the  bath-chair, 
jumping  in  to  assure  its  occupant  that  she  loved  her  very 
much  and  out  again  to  show  that  she  was  a  dog  of  tact  / 
and  Loki,  panting  in  his  great  fur  coat  <in  which  condition 
he  grins  like  a  Chinese  dragon  with  his  roseleaf  tongue 
bent  back  in  the  oddest  little  loop  between  his  white  teeth) 
by  seeking  cool  spots  wherein  to  repose— preferably  under 
the  very  wheel  of  the  chair,  to  his  Grandmother's  dis- 
traction. 

An  afternoon  to  remember,  when  nothing  happened  but 
the  greatest  happenings  of  all :  God's  good  gifts  of  sun 
and  wild  moor  and  balmy  air ! 


220 


XXXI    • 

THR  really  artistic  member  of  the  famiglia  is  Juvenal. 
He  settles  all  the  flowers/  and  for  that  alone— for  the 
pleasure  he  gets  from  it  and  the  pleasure  he  gives- 
he  is  worth  his  weight  in  gold.  The  little  gold  and< 
mother-of-pearl  tinted  Italian  drawing-room  is  always 
a  bower.  Yesterday,  on  the  silver  table  which  stands 
beneath  a  silver  and  gold  Ikon,  he  set  a  vase  of  white 
and  yellow  Roses.  It  was  a  touch  of  genius !  We 
are  quite  sick  of  reading  how  beautiful  Primroses 
look  in  Benares  brass  bowls.  Personally,  we  dislike 
brass  bowls  for  flowers.  Glass !  Glass !  There  is 
nothing  as  good  as  glass,  especially  when  you  have 
the  luck  to  possess,  as  we  did,  a  case  of  old  Dutch 
moulded  bottles.  They  were  made  in  all  kinds  of  delicious 
angles  —  three-cornered,  square,  hexagonal  —  with  Tulips 
stamped  in  the  glass :  in  such  as  these  a  couple  of  long- 
stemmed  Roses  or  Irises,  and  especially  Tulips  and  Daffo- 
dils, are  at  their  very  best. 

We  have  said  "  they  were.77  Alas  for  those  Dutch  bottles, 
and  for  our  folly,  improvident  wretches  as  we  are,  in 
setting  them  about  for  our  own  pleasure,  instead  of  shut- 
ting them  up  in  a  cabinet !  Of  what  were  once  eleven 
perfect  irreplaceable  treasures  <the  twelfth  had  a  large  chip 
off  its  neck  from  the  beginning),  there  are  only  five  left ! 
Tittums,  the  splendid  savage  "  smoke  Persian,77  swept  the 
biggest  and  best  off  a  chimney-piece  with  taps  of  a 
deliberately  evil  paw.  .  .  .  And  the  rest  have  gone  the  way 
of  vases ! 

"  Very  sorry,  Miss 77  <it7s  generally  to  the  Signorina  they 

221 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

come:  she  takes  the  edge  off  the  Padrona's  fury).  "I 
don't  know  how  it  happened,  I'm  sure.  It  came  to 

pieces " 

<Oh,  let  us  stay  our  pen !  Every  owner  of  precious  bric- 
a-brac  knows  the  awful  sound  of  those  words,  and  the 
futility  of  resentment.) 

The  Master  of  the  Villino  had  a  teapot.  Of  yellow  Can- 
tagalli  pottery  it  was,  with  quaint  adornments  like  cater- 
pillars all  over  it  /  it  had  a  snake  handle  and  a  long  curving 
spout.  He  loved  it.  He  never  wanted  to  have  his  tea  out 
of  any  other  vessel.  One  morning  a  stranger  sat  in  its 
place.  He  rang  the  bell  severely.  One  of  the  nomad 
footmen,  who  appear,  and  camp,  and  go  away,  answered  it. 
"  My  teapot/' 
<Yes,  it  was  broken.) 

"  It  came  to  pieces  in  your  hand,  I  suppose  ? "  said  the 
master  sarcastically. 

The  injured  expression  of  the  misjudged  became  painted  on 
John's  face : 

"  No,  sir,"  he  said  with  much  dignity,  "  it  shut  itself  in 
the  door!" 


Loki  has  had  a  bath,  out  of  due  season,  because  his  own 
artist  has  come  down  from  London  to 
limn  his  imperial  splendours  for  his 
-*  own  book.  We  tried  to  make  him 
understand  that  it  is  only  smug 
nouveaux  riches  who  imagine  they  can  patronize  art /  that, 
on  the  contrary,  it  is  Art  which  condescends  to  us.  He 
put  on  his  most  Chinese  face  and  became  a  crocodile  on 
222 


MORE  PEKINESE  WAYS 

the  spot.     On  such  occasions  his  Grandpa  calls  him  a 
"  Crocowog "  <This  page  is  only  for  the  pet  dog-lover : 
superior  people,  please  pass  on  !>    He  is  very  nice  to  kiss 
after  his  bath,  a  process  attended  on  his  side  by  subterranean 
growls  of  protest  and  an  alarming  curling  of  the  lip.    But- 
dear  little  gentle  creature  as  he  is  at  heart—it  is  not  in  him 
to  bite  even  the  most  persistent  tormentor. 
When  his  Grandfather  amuses  himself  by  what  he  calls 
"  Squeezing  the  growls  out "  every  morning,  Loki  tries  vainly 
to  keep  up  a  show  of  displeasure,  but  always  ends  on  his 
back  with  a  windmill  waving  of  pretty  prayerful  paws. 
Loki  has  his  own  very  marked  ideas  on  the  subject  of 
jokes ,-  at  least  he  has  one— in  fact,  an  only  q> 
joke  !     It  took  his  Grandfather  some  time  to  ;  v 
apprehend  it  /  but  constant  repetition  of  the 
incident  (after  the  consecrated  fashion  of  the       T& 
British  farce)  is  beginning  to  make  him  see       •-  ^ 
the  point  of  it.     The  joke  is  this :  at  the  top,       °^ 
or  the  bottom,  of  the  garden,  as  the  case  may 
be,  coming  in  from,  or  going  out  for,  a  walk, 
Loki  stands  stock  still,  generally  unperceived 
till  you  are  midway.    No  coaxing,  whistling,, 
or  screaming  will  budge  him.    He  will  stand 
there  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  it  may  be.     And 
the  point  of  the  joke  is  that  you  must  get 
behind  him  and  stamp  your  feet,  and  say  "  Naughty 
Dog!"    Then  Loki  careers  up  or  down   in  par- 
oxysms of  merriment.   This  may  not  appeal  to  some 
people's  special  bump  of  hilarity/  and  as  it  is  useless  to  try  to 
explain  a  jest,  we  will  leave  those  to  enjoy  the  spinach  story. 

223 


XXXII 

EN GLAND  is  so  seldom  visited  by  hot  weather  such  as  we 
now  have,  that,  especially  in  our  little  place  with  its  foreign 
stamp  within  and  without,  one  keeps  thinking  of  other  lands. 
There  was  the  one  hot  summer  we  went  visiting  in  country 
houses  in  Italy— two  country  houses,  to  be  precise,  and 
both  of  them  were  "  castelli." 


The  first  <which  we  preferred  vastly)  was  on  a  high  plateau 
in  the  middle  of  the  Piedmontese  plain,  not  far  from  Turin. 
From  that  entrancing  spot  the  view  lay  over  wide  undu- 
lating stretches  of  maize  fields  and  vineyards  /  and  the  eye 
could  not  turn  North,  West,  East  or  South  without 
resting  on  a  distant  panorama  of  Alps  or  Apennines. 
That  was  a  hot  summer  with  a  vengeance !  We  were  met 
in  the  dusk  of  the  evening— the  soft  warm  dusk  of  such 
days  in  Italy,  when  the  caress  of  the  air  is  like  the  touch  of 
velvet— by  a  gay  little  equipage  drawn  by  three  mountain 
horses  abreast,  each  with  a  collar  of  bells  and  a  red  hussar 
plume  erect  on  its  forehead.  It  was  the  most  merry  vehicle 
we  have  ever  driven  in.  How  those  horses  went !  How 
they  tossed  their  heads  and  how  their  bells  jangled ! 
A  beautiful  old  French  style  castello  it  was,  by  no  means 
spoilt  in  our  eyes  by  having  been  left  with  rough  brick. 
Now  we  hear  that  its  ambitious  owners  have  faced  it  with 
stone  and  are  themselves  charmed  with  the  result.  No 
doubt  its  original  picturesqueness  had  its  disadvantages, 
for  innumerable  birds  built  under  the  eaves  amid  those 
rough  bricks.  At  the  approach  of  any  vehicle  the  air  was 
224 


A  CASTELLO  IN  PIEDMONT 

full  of  flying  wings.  The  flutter  and  the  sound  of  them ! 
We  thought  the  place  all  delightful  and  characteristic,- 
wonderfully  more  attractive  than  the  pompous  banality  of 
the  now  renewed  mansion,  photographs  of  which  we  have 
since  had  mendaciously  to  admire. 

Inside  it  was  cool  and  charming  /  full  of  old  French  fur- 
niture and  irreplaceable  family  relics.  Some  of  these  have 
recently  been  sold,  to  defray,  no  doubt,  part  of  the  cost  of 
the  new  exterior. 

The  sedan  chair  of  Madame  laMarechale  in  pre-Revolution 
days  remains  in  my  memory  as  a  regret/  it  was  a  wonder 
of  old  Vernis -Martin.  We  hope  they  have  kept  the  great 
flags  that  used  to  hang  in  the  hall.  The  reigning  chatelaine 
did  not  really  care  for  any  of  these  old  things.  Her  heart 
was  set  on  the  joys  of  a  Roman  appartement,  and  its  con- 
comitant social  gaieties. 

There  was  a  spacious  white  hall  with  impossible  paintings 
of  a  boar  hunt  on  its  walls,  opening  upon  an  endless  series 
of  reception  rooms.  And  through  these  lofty  chambers 
three  little  children  were  running  about  in  little  white  linen 
tunics,  and  nothing  on  underneath,  because  of  the  heat  of 
the  weather.  Their  hair  was  cut  in  mediaeval  fashion, 
straight  across  the  forehead  and  straight  again  across 
the  shoulders.  There  was  also  a  most  adorable  baby  of 
eleven  months  carried  about  by  a  soft-eyed  Balia.  Out 
of  the  mountains  she  had  come,  this  creature,  to  cherish 
another's  child !  And  a  series  of  misfortunes  had  fallen 
upon  her  little  home  since  her  departure  :  the  death  of  her 
own  nursling  followed  by  the  death  of  the  cow !  "  Car  a 
moglie,"  her  husband  wrote  on  each  occasion,  "  do  not 
grieve.  It  is  the  will  of  God ! " 

p  225 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

There  were  no  doubt  other  very  simple  reasons  for  these 
catastrophes  :  the  pitiable  poverty  of  the  family  which  had 
made  it  necessary  for  the  poor  woman  to  sell  her  mother- 
rights,  and  possibly  the  tainted  milk  of  the  sick  cow  which 
had  poisoned  the  little  mountaineer.  But  call  it  fate,  or  the 
intolerable  economic  system  of  modern  Italy,  it  came  round 
in  the  end  to  the  same  thing.  "  Do  not  grieve,  car  a  moglie. 
It  is  the  will  of  God!" 

She  had  done  her  best  to  help  her  own,  and  this  was  her 
comfort  in  her  sorrow.  It  was  not  such  a  bad  comfort  / 
and  the  most  advanced  thinker  cannot  prove  after  all  that 
it  was  not  the  will  of  God. 

It  was  difficult,  too,  for  the  foster-mother  to  weep  long 
when  Baby  Maddalena  danced  on  the  stone  of  the  terrace 
with  little  bare  brown  feet.  She  had  the  bluest  eyes  and 
the  brownest  face  that  ever  we  beheld,  and  laughed  and 
gurgled  as  she  danced,  with  very  high  action,  upheld  by 
the  ends  of  her  sash  by  the  adoring  Balia,  whose  own  face 
and  neck  above  her  string  of  gold  beads  were  the  colour  of 
a  ripe  apricot. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  have  devised  a  fortnight  of  greater 
interest,  amusement,  and  quaintness  than  that  of  this 
Piedmontese  visit.  It  was  a  thoroughly  foreign  house- 
hold. The  handsome  white-bearded  athletic  father  of  the 
Chatelaine,  tied  to  his  chair  by  an  attack  of  gout,  had  his 
apartments  downstairs.  And  on  an  upper  floor  the 
mother  of  the  Marchese  had  her  own  complete  establish- 
ment, including  a  wonderful  library,  all  tawny  gold.  There 
was  a  baroque  Chapel  /  and  one  of  our  most  vivid  re- 
collections was  our  pulling  the  children  down  by  their  sashes 
as  they  swung  themselves  over  the  tops  of  the  benches, 
226 


GRANDCHILDREN 

doubled  up  like  golden  fleeces  till  their  curly  heads  and 
their  little  shoes  touched. 

One  thing  never  to  be  omitted  was  to  watch  Monte  Rosa 
at  sunset.  The  night  before  our  departure  there  was  a 
thunderstorm  far,  far  away  in  those  Alps  where  Monte 
Rosa  rises  in  beauty.  At  every  flash,  peak  beyond  peak 
shone  out  in  distances  hitherto  wrapped  away  even  from 
the  imagination. 

"Why  does  the  sky  do  like  that?"  asked  the  second 
boy,  vigorously  blinking  his  great  eyes.  With  straight 
black  hair  and  an  odd,  serious  little  countenance,  square- 
jawed  and  long  upper-lipped  like  a  Medici  out  of  Benozzo 
Gozzoli/s  frescoes,  he  was  the  most  mediaeval-looking  of 
all  the  children.  We  loved  that  four-year-old.  ...  He  has 
grown  up,  we  hear,  "impossible"  and  a  burden  to  his 
family.  We  cannot  help  feeling  it  must  be  the  family's  fault. 
The  elder  boy,  much  handsomer  though  he  was,  did  not 
then  promise  so  well.  A  terribly  nervous  child  /  the  cry 
"  Ho  paura,"  was  always  on  his  lips.  It  hurt  his  grand- 
father's pride  that  any  son  of  his  race  should  show  such 
degenerate  timidity. 

One  typical  scene  we  were  witness  of.  The  little  fellow, 
in  great  awe  of  the  peremptory,  loud-voiced  old  sportsman, 
approached  him  to  say  good-night/  and,  hanging  his  head 
after  the  manner  of  the  frightened  child,  stammered  the 
requisite  "  Bonsoir,  Bonpapa,"  almost  inaudibly. 
Instantly  wrath  broke  out  over  him.  (Bonpapa's  temper 
had  not  improved  with  the  gout.)  "That  was  not  the 
manner  in  which  to  say  good-night."—"  A  man  was  to 
look  up:  to  speak  straight."  "What  does  one  say?"  he 
ended,  shouting. 

227 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

"  Pardon  I "  cried  the  poor,  terrified  imp,  with  a  wail. 
This  child,  over  whom  were  so  many  head-shakings, 
doubts  and  laments,  has  grown  up  so  brave  and  fine  a  boy 
that  it  would  have  rejoiced  the  heart  of  the  old  Vicomte  to 
see  him  now.  His  was  a  stormy  heart  that  wanted  much 
of  life,  and  therefore,  of  course,  knew  much  bitterness.  It 
is  stilled  now,  alas !  this  many  a  year. 


From  this  comparatively  modern  mansion  in  the  Piedmont 
we  went  to  an  old,  old  castle  in  the  plains  of  Lombardy. 
The  chronicles  have  it  that  Barbarossa  besieged  it.  It 
was  approached  through  a  considerable  village—one  of 
great  antiquity,  and  still  retaining  the  lines  of  the  Roman 
castrum,  with  all  its  streets  parallel  or  at  right-angles.  At 
the  top  of  the  main  of  these  the  great  machicolated  entrance 
of  the  Castello,  with  its  faded  frescoes  across  the  arch, 
was  very  impressive  in  mediaeval  strength.  The  church 
shouldered  one  corner  of  the  immense  pile  of  outer  wall  / 
and  each  side  of  the  moat,  between  the  towers,  inside  and 
out,  peasant  houses  had  crept. 

The  Castello  itself,  of  extreme  antiquity,  as  has  been  said, 
formed  two  sides  of  a  square,  round,  and  flagged  court- 
yard. The  garden  ran  sheer  up  the  hill,  within  the  tower. 
flanked  walls  of  the  outer  bailey.  There  were  vineyards 
inside/  and  outside,  where  the  ground  fell  away,  the  whole 
land  was  likewise  covered  with  vines.  They  ran  up  and 
down  long  ridges,  like  petrified  waves,  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  see.  And  in  the  far,  far  distance,  almost  lost  in  the 
horizon,  were  the  Alps. 

What  a  view  that  was  from  the  loopholes  of  those  half- 
228 


A  CASTELLO  IN  LOMBARDy 

ruined  towers—especially  at  sunset,  when  there  gathered  a 
rosy  mist  over  that  curious,  wild-tossing  expanse ! 
Could  we  go  back  now  to  that  unique  spot,  what  a  vast 
amount  of  aesthetic  pleasure  should  we  not  draw  from  it  ? 
But  it  must  be  admitted  that  we  were  gross-minded  enough 
at  the  time  to  allow  material  discomfort  to  overcome  all 
other  impressions. 

To  lodge  in  a  genuine  old  Lombard  Castle,  with  stone 
floors   and  stairs  hewn  in  the  immense  thickness 
of  the  stone  /  to  look  out  upon  one  side 
into  the  moat,  and  to  see  the  peasant 
houses  clinging  to  the  massive  foundations 
far  below  like   barnacles  to   a  rock/  to 
look  out  on  the  other  side  upon  the  odd 
rise  of  sunburnt  garden  up  to  the  vine- 
yard and  the  towers  /  to  imagine  one- 
self back  into  the  very  heart  of  the 
Middle  Ages  may  be  very  inspiring, 
in  theory.     But  mediaeval  sensibilities 
were  undoubtedly  more  blunted  than  ours. 
The  smell  of  that  moat  running  with  the 
refuse  of  the  crowded  Italian  village  !  .  .  . 
For  additional  pungency,  all  the  water  in 
the  place  came  from  sulphur  springs  !  The 
reek  of  it  was  in  one's  nostrils  all  day  from 
merely  washing  in  it. 

The  household  was  composed  of  peasant 
women  out  of  the  village.     The  wife  of  the 
barber,  the  mother  of  the  shoemaker,  and  others, 
clattered  about  the  stone  passages  in  their  mules— 
a  style  of  foot-gear  which  leaves  the  foot  free  from  the 

229 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

instep.  It  was  perhaps  as  well  that  the  heels  were  high, 
for  their  idea  of  housemaiding  <a  method  which  appertains 
in  most  Italian  households  to  this  day)  was  first  to  walk 
about  with  a  pail  and  to  slop  water  out  of  it  over  the  flags 
of  the  floor  /  then  to  sweep  the  resulting  wet  mess  into 
a  puddle  where  the  stone  was  worn  most  hollow  or  under 
the  carpet ! 

Some  attempts  at  a  housemaid's  sink  had  been  excavated 
in  the  stone  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  outside  our  set  of 
rooms  /  but  there  was  generally  a  small  cataract  of  soapy 
water  dripping  down  the  steps,  for  the  simple  practice  of 
the  donna  that  attended  on  our  apartment  was  to  stand  on 
the  landing  outside  our  doors  and  to  shy  the  contents  of 
her  bucket  upwards. 


The  delightful  friend  with  whom  we  stayed,  though  not 
born  of  the  country,  had  fallen  quite  resignedly  into  its 
ways.  And,  indeed,  the  castle  was  chiefly  ruled  by  the 
Princesse  Mere,  a  chatelaine  of  the  old  school,  who  used  to 
arise  in  the  grey  dawn  and  pull  the  iron  chain  of  the  great 
bell  that  hung  outside  her  windows,  to  call  the  vassals  to 
their  daily  work. 

"  Come,  come ! "  she  was  frequently  heard  addressing 
some  dependent  or  other  whose  movements  were  more 
indolent  than  she  approved  of.  "  Are  you  here  for  your 
comfort  or  for  mine  ? " 


The  table  was  served,  copiously,  with  singular  Italian 
dishes.  There  was  a  favourite  soup  with  stewed  quails  in 
230 


THE  ANGELS'  MASS 

it :  the  whole  animal,  bones  and  beak  and  all !  It  is  an 
unspeakable  dish  to  have  set  before  you  on  a  hot  day. 
Patties  filled  with  cocks'  combs  might  follow.  Even  the 
Risotto  was  intermingled  with  such  strange  mincings  of 
liver  and  cutlet  trimmings  that  one  hesitated  before  ven- 
turing. The  Fritura,  needless  to  say,  was  in  full  force. 
A  lucky  dip,  that!  YOU  may  come  across  yesterday's 
cauliflower,  a  bit  of  forgotten  sweetbread,  a  slice  of 
sausage,  a  frizzled  artichoke,  and  half  the  quail  you 
couldn't  eat  the  night  before—all  in  one  spoonful ! 
Besides  the  fierce  matutinal  summons  of  the  domestic  bell, 
one's  sleep  was  constantly  disturbed  by  a  jangle  of  chimes 
from  the  church :  a  perfect  frenzy  of  joy-bells  it  was,  so 
prolonged  and  insistent  that  sleep  was  beaten  out  of  one's 
brain  as  with  hammers. 


"  What,"  we  asked  our  younger  hostess,  the  third  day 
of  this  infliction,  "  what  are  these  carillons,  morning  after 
morning  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  ?— That  is  for  the  Angels'  Mass,"  she  answered 
us  indifferently. 
"The  Angels' Mass?" 
"  Yes.     A  child  dead  in  the  village." 
"  But  every  morning  ? " 

"  There  have  been  several  deaths  lately.  It  is  the  fever 
from  the  rice  fields." 

Pleasant  hearing  for  a  woman  with  an  only  little  daughter 
just  recovering  from  a  rather  serious  illness!  Every 
smell  that  greeted  her  nostrils  afterwards— and  they 
were  of  a  diversified  and  poignant  description—seemed 

231 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

laden  with  the  germs  of  death.  But  the  young  Prindpessa 
had  absorbed  a  good  deal  of  the  indolent  indifference  of 
her  adopted  country  towards  hygiene. 
"  YOU,  with  your  English  notions ! "  was  all  the  comfort 
her  visitor  got,  offered  in  tones  of  good-humour  not  un- 
mixed with  contempt.  Or  else :  "  What  you  smell,  my 
dear,  is  only  carbolic  /  and  that  is  very  healthy/' 
A  few  dabs  of  disinfectant  had  indeed  been  distributed 
about  the  moat,  on  much  "the  same  principle,  and  with  the 
same  effect,  as  the  red  pepper  which  is  served  with  wild 
duck,  just  to  heighten  the  flavour  of  the  dish. 


Perhaps  the  most  lasting  impression  of  that  Lombardy 
sojourn  was  the  morning  discovery  in  a  glass  of  drinking- 
water  which  had  been  placed  beside  the  bed  the  previous 
night,  of  the  most  extraordinary  creature  any  of  us  had 
ever  seen.  It  was  like  a  very  large  shrimp,  perfectly  trans- 
parent, with  such  gigantic  antennae  and  legs  that  they 
protruded  over  the  top  of  the  tumbler ! 
No  one  else  in  the  castle  had  ever  beheld  anything  like  it 
either,  it  appeared  /  except  one  old  woman,  who  described 
it  vaguely  as  "  una  bestia  del  acqua."  But  as  it  most 
certainly  had  not  been  in  the  tumbler  when  the  water  was 
put  into  it,  its  origin  remains  for  ever  a  mystery. 
A  few  nights  later  the  little  girl  of  the  party  of  travellers 
found  one  of  these  zoological  mysteries  in  a  quite  empty 
tumbler !  We  might  have  thought  it  a  practical  joke  played 
on  the  forestieri,  only  that  no  one  could  have  come  into 
the  room  without  the  knowledge  of  its  occupants. 
This,  and  the  sudden  departure  of  the  "  chef"  who  had 
232 


ENTOMOLOGICAL  MYSTERIES 
been  responsible  for  the  little  quails  in  the  soup,  did  upset 
the  equanimity  of  the  pretty  hostess. 
"  To  think/'  she  cried,  "  that  I  should  invite  my  best 
friend  here,  to  starve  or  poison  her!  .  .  .  And  that 
unknown  beasts  should  get  into  her  drinking-water! 
I—I  have  been  here  every  summer  for  eleven  years  and  I 
have  never  seen  a  beast  like  that ! " 

She  thought  we  had  dreamt  the  first  monster.    The  second 
was  carried  in  to  her,  with  its  horrible  transparent  legs 
bristling  over  the  tumbler.    She  surveyed  it  hopelessly. 
"  //  ne  manquait  plus  que  cela  !  " 


Vet  one  looks  back  on  it  all  with  a  kind  of  tenderness.  It 
was  all  so  picturesque  !  What  a  dwelling  might  have  been 
made  of  that  antique  castle  by  anyone  who  had  the  money 
and  the  art  to  spend  it ! 

But,  alas  !  ...  In  the  great  stone  bedchambers  where  we 
lodged  there  were  blinds  with  Swiss  scenes  depicted  in  the 
most  vivid  colours  :  a  mountain  maiden  and  a  Mont  Blanc, 
and  a  torrent  upon  each.  .  .  .  Incongruity  could  go  no 
farther-— except  perhaps  in  the  billiard-room,  which  had 
been  done  up  by  the  Principe  and  was  always  shown  off 
with  great  pomp.  It  was  a  splendid  vaulted  apartment, 
dating  from  the  Barbarossa  period  /  there  were  four  deep 
niches  hewn  out  of  the  stone :  well,  in  two  of  these  were 
placed  large  Chinese  Mandarins,  with  heads  that  nodded 
if  anyone  could  reach  high  enough  to  set  them  going  /  and, 
in  the  other  two  were  plaster  statues  of  the  worst  garden 
description:  Flora  with  a  basket,  Ceres  with  a  lumpy 
sheaf! 

233 


XXXII 

THERE  is  no  ghost  in  the  garden  of  the  Villino.  Neither 
the  meek  spirit  of  Susan  nor  Tom's  saturnine  spectre 
haunts  the  peaceful  glade  where  they'  lie.  (Juvenal  has 
planted  a  "Tree  of  Heaven "  at  the  head  of  his  ever- 
mourned  darling  and  covered  the  grave  with  Forget-me- 
nots  !> 


My  youth  (these  reminiscences  are  contributed  by  Loki's 
grandmother)  was  spent  in  a  large  country  place  in  Ireland, 
and  to  us  children— we  were  six  then— certain  walks,  certain 
dells  in  the  woods,  were  assuredly  haunted. 
The  property  had  long  ago  belonged  to  one  Lady  Tidd,  who 
so  adored  it  that  she  had  herself  buried  on  a  hill  overlooking 
it,  her  coffin  upright  in  its  tall  square  tomb.  It  was  Lady 
Tidd  who  was  popularly  supposed  to  haunt  the  fair  wooded 
lands  that  had  come  to  us.  This  Dysart  Hill,  on  the  top 
of  which  the  ruined  chapel  and  the  deserted  graveyard  lay, 
was  a  favourite  walk  of  our  childish  days.  When  our 
short  legs  had  mastered  the  difficulties  of  the  slope— and  a 
very  stony  slope  it  was,  covered  towards  the  summit  with 
a  fine  mountain  grass,  than  which  no  footing  is  more 
slippery— we  never  failed  to  wander  round  to  that  singular 
234 


AUTUMN 


SOME  GARDEN  GHOSTS 

monument,  through  the  massive  granite  door  of  which  she 
who  stood  in  the  upright  coffin  was  supposed  to  be  gazing 
down  upon  the  distant  prospect  of  our  own  home.  It  was 
never  without  an  awful  sense  of  horror  and  mystery  that 
I  pictured  those  dead  eyes,  endowed  with  miraculous 
vision,  piercing  through  wood  and  stone  to  stare  out  upon 
what  she  still  loved.  Some  apprehension  of  the  horror  and 
tragedy  of  bodily  death  and  of  the  dread  power  of  the  spirit 
seized  hold  of  my  small  soul  as  I  contemplated  that  grave 
of  human  folly  and  of  poor  human  aspiration.  There  it 
was,  perhaps,  that  an  overpowering  dislike  of  graveyards 
began  in  me. 


Lady  Tidd  was  seen  by  a  'gardener  of  ours,  between  two 
Yew  trees,  in  a  dark  corner  outside  the  garden  wall. 
"  She  riz  up  out  of  the  ground  at  me/'  he  told  my  mother. 
And  he  added,  as  a  convincing  detail,  that  his  hat  stood 
up  on  his  equally  rising  hair.  "  Sure,  wasn't  me  hat  lifted 
an  inch  off  me  head,  ma'm  1 " 

My  mother,  strong-souled  creature  as  she  was,  laughed 
with  a  fine  scepticism.  Another  kind  of  spirit  had  done 
the  mischief,  she  declared.  But  we  who  heard  could  not 
so  easily  dismiss  the  agonizingly  fascinating  tale.  We 
knew  that  spot  outside  the  garden  wall,  in  the  shadow  of 
the  black  Yew  trees ,-  and  the  fear  and  the  darkness  that 
always  fell  upon  us  when  we  passed  it. 


Another  dreaded  place  was  a  certain  Primrose  dell,  beauti- 
fully starred  with  blossoms,  beautifully  green,  beautifully 

235 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

shaded  /  the  very  place  for  happy  children,  it  would  seem, 
and  for  long  hours  of  flower-picking  gipsy  teas  and  end- 
less games.  It  was  quite  lost  in  the  woods  that  banded 
the  property,  away  from  intrusions  of  nurse  or 
governess—and  yet,  how  haunted!  Never  shall  I  for- 
get—I feel  it  now  as  I  write— the  profound  misery  that 
would  seize  upon  me  at  the  very  entrance  to  the  laughing 
glade. 

I  am  not  sure,  however,  that  there  was  not  a  tangible 
reason  for  this  depression,  connected  with  the  disappearance 
of  a  fondly-loved  four-footed  playfellow.  A  darling  dog 
he  was:  one  of  the  jocose,  high-spirited  kind/  his  open 
mouth  and  hanging  tongue  seemed  to  show  him  a  partaker 
in  human  mirth,  with  a  waggish  humour  all  his  own.  <No 
pun  is  intended  !>  He  had  a  rough  tangled  coat,  black  and 
white,  a  flag  of  a  tail,  flopping  ears.  He  was  the  swiftest, 
gayest,  most  romping  creature  that  has  ever  shared  the 
play  of  children.  We  adored  him.  His  name  was  Carlo. 
I  don't  know  of  what  breed  he  was,  if  of  any.  .  .  .  Alas  ! 
he  hunted  the  sheep!  He  disappeared!  No  one  knew 
what  had  become  of  him.  We  children  never  ascertained 
anything,  but  there  was  a  rumour— a  dark,  untraceable,  yet 
most  convincing  rumour— that  somebody  had  seen  the 
small,  rough  corpse  hanging  from  a  tree-trunk,  not  far  from 
the  Primrose  dell.  Was  it  not  that,  perhaps,  which  haunted 
the  dell  for  me  ? 

We  suspected  the  herd.  A  large,  fat,  round-faced,  smiling 
man,  this  /  with  an  unctuous,  creeping  voice  that  seemed  to 
gurgle  up  like  a  slow  oil-bubble  from  inner  recesses  of 
obesity.  A  man  who  at  intervals  would  remark,  seeing 
us  grouped  about  our  mother,  "  You've  a  lovely  lot  of 
236 


THE  LOATHELV  HERD 

ladies,  ma'm,  God  bless  them ! "~ as  if  we  were  little  pigs 

or  calves. 

He    had    a    sinister    reputation    with    us    already   on 

account  of  his  periodical  dealings  with  sheep,  which  we, 

tender-hearted  and   impressionable   children,   scarcely  as 

much  as  hinted  to  each  other/  and  certainly  never  really 

associated  with  the  roast  mutton  that  appeared  twice  a 

week. 

No,  we  did  not  like  Green,  the  herd  /  and  I,  the  smallest  of 

the  "  lovely  lot/7  would  cling  to  my  mother's  skirts  when 

his  little  twinkling  eye  turned  in  my  direction. 


For  a  long  time  he  was  associated  in  my  mind  with  the 
horror  of  a  conversation  which  passed  between  him  and 
my  mother.  How  well  I  remember  that  day !  We  were 
walking  through  one  of  the  upper  fields  towards  a  village 
called  Hop  Hall,  which  also  belonged  to  the  estate.  It  was 
a  lovely  meadow  with  a  curious  little  wood  in  the  middle 
of  it,  ringed  like  a  moat  by  a  streamlet  in  which  the  cattle 
drank.  This  wood  was  full  of  wild  Crab- apples/  the 
blossom  of  it  hung  over  the  water  and  was  mirrored 
therein.  The  field  caught  the  sweep  of  wind  that  blew 
from  the  top  of  the  hill  with  the  breath  of  the  Pine-trees.  It 
was  a  carpet  of  Cowslips  in  the  right  season. 
Well,  as  we  walked,  my  mother  and  four  little  girls  and 
one  little  boy,  the  herd  stumping  along  with  a  stick—he  had 
a  lame  leg— his  ragged  dog  behind  him,  there  came  the 
following  interchange  of  remarks,  which  set  a  seal  of 
terror  on  my  young  mind.  My  mother  mentioned  her 
intention  of  visiting  Hop  Hall,  and  then  inquired  how  a 

237 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

certain  old  woman  might  be  who  dwelt  there.    She  had 

been  long  bedridden. 

"  Troth,  and  she's  the  same  as  ever ! " 

"  My  goodness/'  exclaimed  my  mother, "  why,  she  must  be 

nearly  a  hundred !  " 

"She  must  be  that,  me  lady.— Begorra,  she'll  have  to  be 

shot!" 

My  mother  laughed,  and  so  did  the  herd.    The  anguish  of 

the  small  listener  passes  description  /  and  there  ensued  a 

veritable  haunting.    The  herd  she  could  understand,  she 

knew  him  to  be  a  criminal  of  the  deepest  dye.    But  her 

mother!  .  .  . 

It  was  months  before  a  benevolent  governess  discovered 

the  hidden  sore,  and  explained  and  consoled.     It  was  only 

a  joke!    It  left  a  rankling  tenderness.    I  could  see  no 

humour  in  it. 


It  is  no  wonder  that  Irish  children  should  be  fanciful,  sur- 
rounded as  they  are,  or  were  in  my  day,  with  the  quaint, 
superstitious  beliefs  of  servants  and  peasantry.  Our  chief 
nursery  comfort  and  most  beloved  companion  was  the  old 
housekeeper,  who  had  begun  her  life  in  the  service  of  our 
mother's  grandmother.  That  takes  one  back !  Whenever 
we  had  a  free  moment  we  trotted  into  her  sitting-room  for 
pleasant  conversation  and,  maybe,  a  biscuit,  a  bit  of 
chocolate  or  candy.  She  had  the  key  of  the  stores. 
"  I  declare  if  I  was  made  of  sugar,  you'd  have  me  eaten ! " 
she  would  say  /  a  cannibalistic  possibility  I  made  it  a  point 
of  earnestly  disclaiming. 

The  linen  room  was  where  she  sat,  in  a  quaint,  painted, 
238 


THE  THREE  KINGS  AND  THE  STAR 

high-backed  armchair  by  the  window.  She  gazed  straight 
out  across  a  yard  to  a  shrubbery  dominated  by  three  large 
Fir  trees  over  which  the  evening  star  would  peep,  a 
tremulous  yellow.  She  called  those  Fir  trees  her  Three 
Kings,  and  never  failed  to  lift  her  hands  in  wonder  and 
gratitude  over  the  beauty  of  the  star.  Poetry  goes  deep 
into  the  hearts  of  the  Irish. 


I  can  see  that  room  now.  The  whole  of  one  side  was  filled 
with  cupboards—presses,  we  called  them— where,  behind 
buff  wire  gratings  and  beautifully  fluted  bright  pink  calico, 
the  linen  was  stored.  A  few  nursery  groceries,  biscuit  and 
dessert  oddments  were  kept  in  a  cupboard  just  at  the 
entrance  /  and  there  was  always  a  faint  fragrance  of  raisins 
and  spice  in  the  atmosphere.  I  can  see  the  dear  occupant 
of  the  room  too/  the  picture  of  beautiful  old  age,  with 
banded  silver  hair  beneath  the  snow-white  cap  which  was 
tied  with  muslin  strings  under  her  chin.  I  can  see  her 
apple-blossom  cheeks  and  her  blue  eyes,  clear  and  innocent 
as  a  child's,  yet  so  wise !  She  had  a  white  starched  kerchief 
folded  across  her  black  bodice,  and  her  black  skirt  was 
gathered  with  a  great  many  pleats  round  the  comfortable 
rotundity  of  her  figure.  We  used  to  find  her  sitting  by  the 
casement  in  the  twilight,  gazing  out.  If  the  mood  took  me, 
I  would  sit  on  her  knee  and  stare  out  too.  Every  few 
minutes  or  so  she  would  sigh,  not  with  sadness,  but  gently, 
as  the  woods  sigh,  with  scarcely  perceptible  movement  on 
a  still  night.  But  though  I  knew  it  to  be  no  sigh  of  distress, 
it  nevertheless  troubled  me-  I  would  ask  anxiously : 
"  Why  do  you  sigh,  Mobie  ?  " 

239 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

Her  answer  was  always  the  same : 

"Old  age,  Alanna!" 

Her  name  was  Mrs.  O'Brien,  which  was  interpreted  Mobie 

by  our  baby  lips. 

In  same  fashion  the  first  nurse,  whom  I  only  vaguely 

remember,  erect,  small,  severe,  and  kind,  had  degenerated 

from  Mrs.  Hughes  into  Shuzzie  /  and  the  queer,  tiny  head 

housemaid,  baptized  Bridget,  was   Dadgie.      A   unique 

personage  this,  minute  as  she  was  active,  with  bobbing 

bunches  of  grey  curls  on  each  side  of  her  grey  net  cap 

with  purple  ribbons  which  were  tied  under  her  chin.    Upon 

the  rare  occasions  when  some  damage  occurred  to  the 

china  or  glass  under  her  hands,  she  would  trot  into  my 

mother  with  the  announcement : 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  I've  made  a  ' 'foo  pas  I ' ' 

No  one  knew  where  she  had  picked  up  this  inappropriate 

bit  of  French. 

Dear,  quaint,  pathetic,  busy  little  creature,  buzzing  about 

the  house  with  a  flapping  duster !     I  have  a  vision  of  her 

too,  as  I  write :  her  huge  poke  bonnet  overshadowing  the 

small,  important  face  ,•  her  bobbing  curls  as  she  fluttered 

in  to  confession  in  the  oratory  on  those  monthly  occasions 

when  the  old  parish  priest— another  figure  out  of  long  past 

times,  he  too,  with  his  white  head,  his  black  stockings  and 

buckle  shoes,  his  full-skirted  coat— came  out  from  the  little 

country  town  to  "  hear  "  the  household. 


My  mother  used  to  call  the  three  old  women  servants  her 
three  duchesses.  Alas!  two  of  these  dignitaries  passed 
away  very  early  in  my  recollection.  Fortunately,  Mobie, 
240 


THE  FAIRIES 

the  best  beloved,  was  left  to  us  till  later  years.     It  is 
to  her  that  my  thoughts  most  readily  return. 
She  was  a  store-house  of  anecdotes  and  legends.    Never 
would  she  speak,  nor  allow  anyone  to  speak 
before  her,  of  the  fairies  otherwise  than  as 
"the  good  people"/   and  then  it  was  with 
bated  breath.     It  was  established   as  a  fact 
among  us  that  in  her  girlhood  she  had  had 
communication  with  them.     Certainly,  we  be- 
lieved, she  had  seen  them  one  evening  dancing 
in  a  ring  /  but  never  could  she  be  got  to  tell 
us   in   detail    anything  about  these  experiences. 
The  very  mystery  of  her  silence  confirmed  our 
theory. 

What  a  delightful  volume  one  could  have  made 
out  of  the  tales  that  fell  from  her  lips  upon  our 
small  listening  ears  by  the  nursery  fire  /  or  in  the 
linen  room  with  its  uncurtained  window  and  its  vision  of 
the  Three  Kings  and  the  Star. 

From  many  memories  one  floats  back  to  me.    It  made  a 
great  impression : 


"...  And  when  Tim  Brenahan  was  on  his  way  home 
that  evening,  wasn't  it  round  by  the  wall  he  went,  and 
didn't  he  see  two  great  cats  sitting  on  the  top  of  it  with 
their  tails  hanging  over  ?  And  didn't  one  cat  say  to  the 
other,  as  plain  as  can  be,  and  didn't  he  hear  it,  just  as  you 
do  be  hearing  me : 

"Says  one,  'And  what's  the  news  this  evening?'  And 
says  the  other,  '  No  news  at  all,'  says  he.  '  Only  that 

q  241 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

the  widdie  Moloney's  old  tabby's  gone  at  last/  says  he, 
'  and  it's  the  great  funeral  will  be  to-night/  says  he. 
"  And  when  Tim  Brenahan  came  home  to  his  wife,  says 
she  to  him,   'And  what's  the  news  this  evening,  Tim, 
asthore?' 

"And  says  he  to  her,  'Faith,  no  news  at  all/  says  he, 
'  save  as  I  was  coming  home  by  the  long  wall  beyont,  there 
was  two  great  fellers  of  cats  sitting  on  the 
top  of  it.  And  says  one  to  the  other, 
"The  widdie  Moloney's  tabb's  goney 
at  last/'  says  he,  "  and  it's  the  grand 
burying  on  her  there'll  be  to-night." ' 
"And  no  sooner  were  the  words 
out  of  his  mouth  when  his  own 
tom-cat  ups  with  him  and  shakes 
himself  where  he  was  sittin'  starin' 
at  the  turf,  and  says  he  '  Then  it's 
time  for  me  to  be  off/  says  he,  '  or 
I'll  be  late  for  the  funeral.'  And  out 
of  the  door  with  him,  with  his  tail  all 
of  a  bristle.  .  .  /' 
I  was  rather  awed  by  that  story,  which,  to  my  infant 
mind,  bore  the  stamp  of  unmistakable  veracity  /  but 
nothing  that  proceeded  from  the  linen  room  ever  really 
distressed  me.  Its  ruling  spirit  was  too  benign  and  too 
perfectly  in  harmony  with  us. 


The  terror  of  those  days  to  me  was  the  fragile-looking,  soft, 
voiced,  mincing  widow  who  became  our  nurse  after  the  death 
of  the  fine  old  martinet  by  whom  we  had  been  ruled  before. 
242 


AN  OLD  IRISH  NURSE 

It  was  not  surprising  that  our  mother  should  have  imagined 
she  was  passing  us  over  to  a  much  gentler  authority  /  but 
as  a  matter  of  fact—indolent,  ignorant,  peevish— the  new 
nursery  autocrat  was  given  to  enforcing  her  orders  by 
threats  of  a  ghastly  and  impossible  description. 
"  I'll  cut  your  tongue  out/'  was  a  favourite  menace,  which, 
if  defied,  would  be  supplemented  by— "Wait,  now,  till  I 
run  and  get  my  scissors/' 

Stronger  of  body,  more  enlightened  in  mind,  my  co- 
nurseryites  treated  these  remarks  with  the  scorn  they 
deserved.  But  I  cannot  describe  the  agony  with  which 
they  pressed  upon  me.  It  is  peculiar  to  all  children  that 
these  terrors  are  never  communicated  to  others.  Not  even 
to  my  brothers  and  sisters  would  I  breathe  one  word  of 
my  apprehensions.  But  the  misery  took  shape  in  horrible 
dreams  and  sleepless  nights.  And  when  matters  became 
too  intolerable,  I  would  creep  out  of  my  little  bed,  and 
patter  across  the  bare  boards  into  the  adjoining  room 
where  the  housekeeper  slept.  On  no  single  occasion  did 
she  show  the  smallest  severity  or  even  annoyance 
at  being  disturbed. 

"  Mobie,"  I  would  pipe,  "  I'm  afraid !  .  .  .  May 
I  get  into  your  bed  ?  " 

"  Come  in,  Alanna,"  was  the  invariable  response. 
Oh !  the  comfort  of  snuggling  against  her ! 
Whether  she  promptly  fell  asleep  again,  or  whether 
she  watched  and  talked  loving  nonsense  one  felt 
equally  safe,  equally  blessedly  happy.    If  she  slept, 
it  was  lightly  enough,  like  all  old  people/  and  each 
time  she  turned  or  moved  in  the  bed,  the  small  bed- 
fellow would  hear  her  murmur: 

243 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

"  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  me ! " 

It  was  not  a  deliberate  prayer,  scarcely  even  a  conscious 
thought,  but  the  natural  movement  of  the  soul. 
Little  wonder  that,  being  what  she  was,  she  who  had  lain 
down  every  night,  as  it  were,  in  the  very  arms  of  Provi- 
dence, should  pass  to  her  last  sleep  as  simply  and 
fearlessly. 

"  Are  you  frightened,  mother  ? "  cried  her  daughter,  bend- 
ing over  her  at  the  very  end.  She  opened  her  eyes  and 
smiled. 

"Frightened?  How  could  I  be  frightened?  Am  I  not 
going  to  my  best  friend  ? " 


244 


XXXIII 

LOOKING  back  now,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  whole 
of  my  childhood  was  pursued  by  one  phantom  or  another. 
The  smell  of  the  woods  through  the  open  nursery  window 
on  a  hot  summer's  night  turned  me  sick  with  an  un- 
speakable apprehension.  Believers  in  reincarnation  would 
attribute  this  peculiarity  to  some  sylvan  tragedy  in  a 
previous  existence.  No  doubt  there  must  have  been  a 
physical  explanation.  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
most  things  in  life  are  capable  of  a  double  interpretation  / 
which  is  the  same  thing  as  saying  that  there  are  two 
aspects  to  every  question ! 


Is  it  usual  for  children,  I  wonder,  to  see  such  marvellous 
colours,  shapes,  and  appearances  in  the  dark  as  both  I  and 
a  sister  did,  between  the  ages  of  five  and  eight  ?  Kaleido- 
scopic colours  running  one  into  the  other,  and  an  odd, 
very  frequently  recurrent  vision  of  a  cushion  covered  with 
gold  pieces  which  poured  down  on  the  bed. 
My  husband,  as  a  small  child,  would  behold  complete 
scenes  in  the  corner  of  his  nursery,  and  would  pull  his 
nurse  on  one  side  impatiently  when  she  impeded  his  view. 
And  let  me  here  note  a  curious  incident  connected  with 
his  juvenile  imaginings.  All  his  life,  as  far  back  as  he 
could  remember,  he  had  a  recurrent  dream  of  terror—at 
fairly  rare  intervals— of  an  immense  wave  rising  up  before 
him  like  a  mountain  and  curling  over  at  the  top,  about 
to  overwhelm  the  land.  He  told  me  of  this  dream  after  we 
were  married,  adding  that  though  it  was  so  distinct  that  he 

245 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

could  draw  it,  he  knew  it  for  a  purely  fantastic  nightmare  / 

knew  that  no  such  tall  and  steep  wave  as  he  beheld  in  his 

sleep  could  exist  in  nature,     A  few  years  ago—we  were 

at  Brighton,  I  remember— he  brought  up  to  me  from  the 

hotel  room  an  illustrated  paper,  and,  laying  it  on  the  table 

before  me,  said :  "  Look— there  is  my  dream ! " 

I  looked.     It  was  an  illustration  that  held  the  whole  page. 

I  saw  a  huge  wall  of  water,  rising  sheer  black,  with  a 

toppling  crest  of  white— an  awful,  threatening  vision !     I 

read  underneath :  "  Photograph  of  the  recent  tidal  wave  in 

Japan/' 

Who  can  explain  the  mystery  ?    He  had  had  that  dream 

first  as  a  baby  boy  in  Paris,  some  forty-five  years  before. 

No  such  sight,  no  such  picture  had  ever  come  across  his 

waking  consciousness. 

A  tidal  wave  in  Japan  ...  so  far  has  my  discursive  mind 

led  me  from  garden  ghosts  ! 


We  know  a  haunted  garden  belonging  to  an  old  Manor 
House  in  Dorsetshire  which  was  our  abode  one  summer, 
five  or  six  years  ago.  The  house  had  once  been  Catherine 
Parr's.  It  was  full  of  ghosts  too,  but  I  am  none  too  sure 
that  they  were  mellow  sixteenth-century  spectres/  rather 
I  believe  were  they  the  objectionable  offspring  of  a  table- 
rapping  spiritualistic  owner. 

The  garden  ghost  was,  to  our  thinking,  neither  Tudor  nor 
modern,  but  that  of  a  sad  little  eighteenth-century  nun. 
For,  passing  through  many  hands,  the  place  had  for  a  time 
been  a  convent.  A  gentle  community,  turned  out  by  the 
French  Revolution,  had  been  offered  a  refuge  in  this  far 
246 


THE  FORGOTTEN  NUN 

corner  of  England  by  the  then  papist  possessor  of  "  The 
Court/7  The  place  had  its  previous  story  of  faith  and 
persecution :  its  parish  church,  which  had  long  clung  to  the 
old  dispensation,  and  its  priest  martyr  still  lying  in  the 
little  churchyard.  All  this  is  forgotten  now.  We  knew 
nothing  of  it,  nor  of  the  nuns/  but  oddly  enough,  when 
we  came  into  the  house,  one  of  us  said  to  the  other : 
"  I  am  sure  there  was  a  chapel  here/' 
Well,  when  the  nuns  packed  up  their  goods  and 
returned  to  France,  they  took  away  with  them 
too  <so  tradition  says)  the  coffins  of  some 
sisters  who  had  been  buried  in  the  garden.  Surely 
they  had  forgotten  one !  What  else  could  ac- 
count for  the  dreadful  melancholy  which  fell 
upon  us  at  a  particular  turn  of  the  walk  that 
ran  round  that  sunny,  bowery  enclosure  ?  There 
was  nothing  whatsoever  suggestive  about  the 
spot.  The  high,  warm  wall  with  the  spreading  [ 
fruit  trees  rose  on  one  side ,-  an  Apple  tree  and  a  \ 
clump  of  Hazels  held  the  other— yet  so  sure  as 
one  came  to  this  place  the  heart  was  gripped,  the 
spirit  seized.  We  each  of  us  felt  it/  visitors  felt 
it.  That  dear,  departed  cat,  Tom,  of  venerable 
memory—he  was  a  great  ghost-seer— he  felt  it— 
nay,  he  saw  it !  His  tail  would  bristle,  his  fur 
stare,  he  would  stand  and  then  flee  as  if  pursued 
for  his  life. 

The  poor  little  nun,  lying  in  a  foreign  land,  away  from 
the  rest  of  her  sisters,  forgotten !— -Ghosts  have  walked 
for  much  less.    In  fact,  it  is  curious  to  note  that  the    I 
restlessness  of  most  authenticated  ghosts  seems  due  to 

247 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

an  objection  to  their  place  of  burial.  And  on  this  score— 
if  the  anecdote  takes  me  away  from  gardens,  it  brings  me 
back  to  them  in  the  end— I  have  in  my  mind  another  tale.  It 
is  a  true  story,  as  the  children  say,  connected  with  a  house 
which  we  have  often  visited  in  Ireland :  an  old  monastery, 
full  of  that  curious  depression  in  its  stateliness  which 
so  many  confiscated  church  properties  retain.  It  was 
haunted  in  many  ways. 

Personally,  beyond  unpleasant  sensations  in  traversing 
some  particular  corridor  and  landing,  we  never  met  any 
ghost  in  the  Abbey.  But  then  we  were  not  placed  in  the 
ghost-room. 

An  old  friend  of  our  hostess,  an  elderly  lady,  was  not  so 
kindly  treated.  She  was  a  spinster  of  robust  constitution 
and  strong  mind/  a  type  of  the  particular  generation 
which  comes  between  the  nervous  gentility  of  the  Early 
Victorian  sisterhood  and  the  present  day  "  suffrage " 
community.  No  doubt  the  mistress  of  the  Abbey 
believed  her  ghost-proof.  But  she  was  mistaken.  After 
the  first  night  in  the  Lavender  Bedroom,  the  visitor's  appear- 
ance at  breakfast  pointed  so  conclusively  to  the  fatigue  of 
sleeplessness  that,  with  some  misgiving,  her  friend  drew 
her  on  one  side  to  question  her  in  private : 
"  Were  you  disturbed,  Lucy  ? " 

"  I  was,  Mary/'  The  maiden  lady  was  not  a  person 
of  many  words. 

"  Did  you— did  you  ...  see  anything,  Lucy  ? "  exclaimed 
the  hostess.     The  family  had  but  lately  come  into  posses- 
sion/ and  the  idea  of  haunters   and   haunted  annoye 
rather  than  frightened  her. 
"  I  did/'  said  the  friend  firmly. 
248 


THE  STRONG-MINDED  CONVINCED 

Some  persuasion  was  necessary  before  she  would  relate 
her  experience.  At  last  it  was  extracted  from  her  in  some 
such  shape  as  this : 


"  I  couldn't  sleep.  Towards  two  in  the  morning  I  heard  a 
noise.  I  thought  it  was  rats.  I  sat  up  in  bed  to  feel  for  the 
matches:  couldn't  find  them.  There  came  a  light, on  the 
opposite  wall.  I  stared.  I  saw  a  monk  in  it.  He  began  to 
move.  He  didn't  look  alive :  he  looked  like  a  magic  lantern. 
He  went  out  of  the  room  through  the  closed  door.  I  got  up, 
opened  the  door,  looked  out  into  the  passage.  Yes,  Mary, 
the  light  was  there,  and  the  figure  in  it,  too.  It  moved  along 
the  wall.  I  followed  it.  It  disappeared  before  the  cross 
doors.  I  went  back  to  bed.  No,  I'm  not  frightened,  but 
I  haven't  slept.  I'd  like  another  room,  please.  No,  I 
wasn't  asleep— it  wasn't  a  dream.  I  can't  explain  it.  Nor 
you  either,  I  suppose." 


The  hostess  pondered.  It  was  true  she  couldn't  explain. 
She  had  heard  of  that  apparition  before—perhaps  had  seen 
it.  It  was  certainly  very  annoying.  She  promised  her 
friend  to  give  instant  orders  for  the  preparation  of  another 
room,-  and  then  made  a  request  that  the  matter  should 
not  be  mentioned  to  her  daughter— an  impressionable, 
imaginative  girl  of  eighteen. 
The  maiden  lady  snorted.  It  wasn't  likely. 
Rosamund,  the  daughter,  had  of  course  known  all  about  it 
long  ago ,-  while,  after  the  fashion  of  her  kind,  keeping  her 
counsel  demurely  before  her  elders,  she  had  discussed  freely 

249 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

the  thrilling  appanage  of  her  new  home  with  all  the  com- 
panions of  her  own  age  who  came  to  stay  at  the  Abbey. 
It  was  she  who  was  destined  to  lay  the  ghost.  One  rainy 
afternoon  later  in  the  same  summer,  the  young  members  of 
the  house-party  found  themselves  stranded  together  in  the 
great  hall,  and  Rosamund  cheerfully  suggested  table-turning 
and  spirit-rapping  to  while  away  the  time  till  tea.  It  is  a 
never-failing  amusement. 

Having  produced  a  satisfactory  condition  of  lurching,  and 
elicited    several    quite    distinct    raps     from    the     round 
mahogany  table,  she  cried  out : 
"  Let  us  call  up  the  ghost/7 

Responsive  knocks  came,  loud  and  marked.  A  system  of 
communication  was  promptly  established.  Two  raps  for 
yes,  one  for  no.  Then  the  questioning  began. 
With  much  laughter  and  some  agreeable  tremors,  it  was 
ascertained  that  the  monk-ghost  belonged  to  the  community 
which  had  dwelt  so  long  at  the  Abbey  /  that  he  was  dis- 
satisfied with  his  present  place  of  burial,  which  was  outside 
the  old  monks7  burying-ground,  now  a  part  of  the  actual 
garden. 

It  is  always  safe,  as  I  have  said,  to  question  a  ghost  on 
this  point.  Now,  however,  some  difficulty  ensued  when, 
through  the  limited  medium,  the  rapping  spirit  endeavoured 
to  specify  the  spot  of  its  present  abode,  and  the  field  was 
too  wide  for  exactness— until  a  young  sailor  cousin  inter- 
vened. He  had  been  playing,  in  mere  idleness  and  utter 
scepticism,  the  rather  gruesome  game.  But  at  this  point 
he  roused  himself,  interested  to  put  the  matter  to  the  proof. 
He  fetched  pencil  and  paper,  and  drew  up  a  scheme  of 
latitude  and  longitude  with  reference  to  the  garden  walls  / 
250 


LAID  AT  LAST 

and  finally  determined  the  position  where  the  discontented 
ghost  announced  that  his  bones  were  actually  reposing. 
With  professional  neatness  he  made  a  plan  of  the  shrubbery, 
marked  the  grave  thereon,  and  the  whole  party  resolved  to 
sally  forth  with  spades  "  to  see  if  the  old  ghost  spoke  the 
truth."  The  sailor  cousin  was  particularly  jocose  in 
unbelief. 

Yet  truly,  the  next  day,  in  the  very  place  designated,  they 
came  upon  bones—to  be  exact,  upon  a  skeleton  complete 
save  for  the  skull.  The  sailor  was  the  first  to  rush  back 
to  the  Abbey  and  collect  a  circle  for  a  fresh  seance.  And 
once  more  the  phantom  monk  rapped  out  latitude  and 
longitude  in  connexion  with  his  skull/  once  more  he  was 
found  to  be  a  ghost  of  the  most  complete  veracity.  And 
the  end  of  this  true  story  is  that  the  skeleton,  complete 
with  its  cranium,  was  laid  duly  and  reverently  in  the  old 
consecrated  ground  in  the  garden.  And  the  monk  appeared 
no  more  in  the  Lavender  Room. 


251 


XXXIV 

I  PROMISED  to  return  to  gardens,  and  here  I  am 
What  a  garden  that  was !  Not  a  bit  uncomfortable  in 
spite  of  its  company  of  departed  friars.  The  monk's  old 
Vew  Walk  was  there  ,-  such  a  one  as  has  not  its  match 
in  the  kingdom,  I  believe.  There  too  were  fields  of 
"  Malmaison  "  Carnations.  Never  have  I  beheld  such 
lavishness  before  or  since.  The  scent  of  the  things !  It 
was  our  hostess's  rather  extravagant  fancy.  I  don't 
know  that  I  exactly  envy  it.  It  was  almost  too  much, 
but  yet  it  was  a  wonder ! 


I  think  it  was  a  dream  of  very  childish  days  that  started 
my  haunting  dread  of  graveyards  /  that,  and  the  peculiar 
desolation  of  the  little  burial-place  through  which  we 
passed  every  Sunday  morning  to  go  to  the  Chapel  near 
our  country  home.  It  was  what  is  called  in  Ireland  a 
''station/'  that  is  a  Chapel  of  Ease,  which  was  only 
attended  on  Sundays  and  shut  up  on  week-days.  Deprived 
of  the  flicker  of  the  Sanctuary  lamp,  the  place  seemed, 
except  for  that  brief  Sunday  service,  as  deserted  within  as 
it  was  forlorn  without. 

I  dreamt  that  all  those  poor  neglected  green  graves—there 
was  hardly  one  with  even  a  black  painted  cross  to  mark 
it— had  become  endued  with  ghastly  life  and  started  in 
pursuit  of  me  down  the  familiar  country  road.  In  a  fright- 
ful, stealthy  silence  they  wallowed  and  leaped,  gaining 
on  me  as  I  ran,  in  my  dream,  in  a  panic  that  I  can  hardly 
even  now  bear  to  think  back  on. 
252 


GREEN  GRAVES 

For  years  afterwards  I  never  walked  away  from«that  little 
churchyard,  even  in  the  large  and  cheerful  company  of  my 
sisters,  clutching  the  solid  hand  of  governess  or  nurse, 
without  the  nightmare  terror  coming  on  me  again.  Not 
a  word  did  I  breathe  of  it,  of  course  /  but  I  would 
look  back  over  my  shoulder,  at  every  turn  of  the 
road,  horribly  expecting  to  see  those  uncanny 
green  hounds  on  the  trace  of  my  miserable 
little  heels. 

It  was  only  in  my  walks  I  feared,  however. 
When  driving  backwards  and  forwards  to 
Mass  I  felt  I  could  defy  the  graves.  We 
always  drove  to  the  Sunday  Mass.  How 
vivid  are  the  impressions  of  those  early 
days !  As  I  write  I  have  before  me  the 
whole  scene.  Just  before  the  cracked 
bell  ceased  ringing,  we  would  file  up 
the  little  front  aisle  and  enter  the  pew 
reserved  for  us ,-  my  mother  very  solemn, 
with  what  we  called  her  church  face/ 
our  two  governesses  and  we  children. 
In  summer  each  of  the  four  little  girls 
wore  a  new  starched,  very  full-skirted  print 
frock  /  and  the  one  little  boy  of  the  party  a 
white  duck  suit  equally  stiff  from  the  wash. 
Our  wooden  pew  ran  on  the  right  side  of  the  W 
Sanctuary  rails  and  was  shut  off  by  a  little  door  from  the 
rest  of  the  chapel.  It  had  long  bright  red  rep  cushions,  and 
the  wood-work  was  painted  a  peculiarly  pale  yellow,  hand- 
somely and  wormily  grained!  Just  opposite  to  us,  the 
better  class  farmers'  families  were  installed/  and  every 

253 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

new  fashion  that  appeared  in  our  bench  was  promptly 
copied  by  the  bouncing  Miss  Condrens  and  Miss  Mahons 
opposite. 

There  was,  I  recollect,  one  personage  who  inspired  me 
with  great  admiration.  She  was  a  Mrs.  Condren  and  her 
Christian  name  was  Eliza.  The  daughter  of  what  is 
called  a  "  warm  farmer/7  she  had  been  forbidden  all  thoughts 
of  matrimony  by  him,  who  held  the  holy  estate  in  as 
much  disfavour  as  did  Mrs.  Browning's  father. 
Well  on  in  years,  and  presumably  bored  by  her  maiden 
state,  she  had  at  length  eloped  with  an  elderly  admirer/ 
and  though  she  had  "  done  very  well  for  herself  "  and  her 
spouse  was  quite  as  "  warm  "  as  her  papa,  the  latter  main- 
tained towards  them  both  an  undying  resentment.  No 
wonder  Mrs.  Condren  moved  in  a  halo  of  romance  in  our 
eyes.  Added  to  this  she  was  always  very  handsomely 
attired  in  a  shining  purple  silk,  which  filled  the  chapel  with 
its  rustle.  She  also  sported  a  yellow  bonnet  with  bunches 
of  wax  grapes  and—last  touch  of  elegance—dependent 
from  its  brim,  a  lace  veil  embroidered  also  with  grapes,  a 
cluster  of  which  completely  covered  one  eye  and  part  of 
her  cheek. 

Quite  another  type  was  old  Judy  in  her  little  brown  shawl 
and  lilac  sun-bonnet,  who  knelt  ostentatiously  just  in  front 
of  the  altar  rails,  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  congregation  / 
and  who  punctuated  the  service  and  sermon  with  loud 
clacks  of  her  tongue,  groans  from  and  thumps  upon  her 
attenuated  chest.   My  mother  was  once  highly  amused  by 
Judy's  pantomime  during  a  particular  discourse. 
"  Blessed  are  the  poor/'  announced  the  young  curate  with 
his  rolling  Irish  emphasis. 
254 


BLESSED  ARE  THE  POOR 

Here  was  a  statement  quite  to  Judy's  taste.  Loud  were 
her  groans  of  approval.  She  turned  up  her  eyes  with 
great  piety,  and  the  gusto  with  which  she  beat  her  breast 
indicated  that  she  took  the  benediction  entirely  to  herself. 
"But  don't  think,  me  brethren/'  went  on  the  ecclesiastic 
warningly,  "  that  this  means  that  because  you're  poor  in 
purse  you're  pleasing  to  God.  It's  the  poor  in  spirit  that 
I  do  be  meaning.  There's  many  a  poor  body  with  a  proud 
heart." 

Now  poor  old  Judy  must  have  been  conscious  of  the 
possession  of  this  spiritual  drawback  /  for  even  as  she  had 
taken  the  text  as  a  direct  compliment,  so  she  now  took  the 
corollary  to  it  as  a  personal  insult.  She  drew  herself  up 
with  a  jerk  and  threw  a  glance  of  furious  reproach  at  the 
speaker.  No  more  groans  should  His  Riverence  have  out 
of  her!  No— nor  tongue  clacking,  nor  chest  thumpings 
either ! 

For  the  rest  of  his  sermon  she  remained  rigid,  fixing  her 
gaze  upon  him  with  an  unwavering  glare  of  disapproval. 


As  the  priest  had  to  come  from  a  considerable  distance,  he 
was  generally  late  /  and  as  the  congregation  itself  straggled 
in  from  over  the  hills,  sometimes  much  before  the  hour,  it 
was  the  pious  custom  at  Rathenisha  for  the  two  model 
damsels  of  the  congregation  each  to  read  aloud  out  of 
a  different  book  of  sermons  for  the  edification  of  the 
assembly  in  the  delay  before  Mass.  They  had  fine  loud 
voices  and  read  simultaneously  /  the  effect  can  be  better 
imagined  than  described.  One  ear  would  be  struck  by 
genteel  accents  proclaiming,  "Admoire  the  obedience  of 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

Joseph,  me  brethren.  Did  he  repoine,  did  he  hesitate  ?  "<— 
the  while  the  other  ear  was  assailed  by  a  rich  brogue 
announcing,  "  The  sentence  is  already  past.  Thou  must 
doi.  How  many  have  gone  to  bed  at  noight  in  apparent 
good  health—" 

It  was  some  such  threat  as  this,  intermittently  caught  from 
the  side  of  the  deepest  brogue,  which  would  terrify  my 
small  mind.  The  whole  churchyard,  with  its  horror  of 
green  graves,  would  seem  to  close  about  me.  And  how 
much  worse  it  was  should  there  chance  to  be  a  new,  raw 
mound  without ! 


One  of  the  Mahon  girls  did  indeed  illustrate  the  gloomy 

treatise   in  a  manner  appalling    to    my  secret  state  of 

apprehension.     She  died  quite  suddenly  while  dancing  at 

some  rural  festivity.     Rumour  had  it  it  was  tight-lacing 

which  had  produced  the  tragedy. 

"  Wasn't  she  black  all  down  one  side,  the  crathur  ? " 

"  Ah,  maybe— but  she  was  always  a  yaller  girl/7  opined  a 

wise  matron. 

Dimly  I  can  recall  that  she  had  the  pallor  that  goes  with 

swarthy  hair  and  eyes.     A  handsome  creature,  but  not  of 

the  type  admired  by  her  class.    The  poor  girl's  sudden  end 

formed  a  stirring  illustration  for  the  second  curate's  sermon 

the  Sunday  after  the  funeral. 


"  What  did  I  say,  me  brethren,  last  time  I  stood  preaching 
here  at  you  ?  Didn't  I  say  who  could  tell  who  would  be 
missing  before  the  year  was  out  ?  And  look  now  at  the 
256 


A  PERSUASIVE  TONGUE 

wan  that  has  been  taken— a  foin,  sthrapping  young  girl,  one 
of  the  foinest,  I  might  say,  in  this  parish.  .  .  .  Not  an  ail 
on  her  a  few  days  ago,  and  where  is  she  now  ? " 
He  jerked  his  thumb  terribly  through  the  little  glass  window 
at  the  side.  The  congregation  enjoyed  it  enormously. 
There  was  a  sucking  of  breaths,  a  clacking  of  tongues  and 
subdued  groans  of  approbation  /  and  a  good  deal  of  rock- 
ing backwards  and  forwards  on  the  part  of  Judy,  who  as 
usual  squatted  on  her  heels  at  the  edge  of  the  altar  rails. 
But,  poor  little  wretch  that  I  was,  how  I  quaked ! 
The  second  curate  was  an  excellent  young  man,  of  the 
sturdy  type  familiar  to  many  Irish  districts  in  those  days. 
The  people  called  him  "  rale  wicked/'  and  loved  him  pro- 
portionately—" wicked/'  in  their  terminology,  having  a 
very  different  significance  from  the  word  used  in  its  English 
sense.  "  Wicked  "  to  them  refers  but  to  the  flame  of  the 
fire  of  zeal/  and  they  like  to  feel  it  scorch  them. 
When  from  the  altar  steps  he  threatened  by  name  certain 
recalcitrant  black  sheep  of  his  congregation  who  were 
neglecting  their  Easter  duty,  to  be  "  afther  them  with  a 
horsewhip  if  they  didn't  present  themselves  '  at  the  box '  so 
soon  as  he  had  his  breakfast  swallowed/'  there  was  a 
thrill  of  admiration  through  the  chapel.  That  was  being 
"  wicked  "  after  a  fashion  they  all  appreciated.  And  when, 
after  his  breakfast  had  been  gulped  down,  he  duly  appeared 
with  a  horsewhip,  the  results  were  immediate  and  excellent. 
His  morning  meal,  in  parenthesis,  got  ready  for  him  by  a 
neighbouring  farmer's  wife  and  served  to  him  in  the  little 
damp  sacristy,  invariably  consisted  of  three  boiled  eggs, 
besides  the  usual  pot  of  poisonous  strong  tea.  Three 
eggs  is  the  number  consecrated  to  the  cleric  in  Ireland. 

r  257 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

At  a  certain  Connemara  hotel  a  curious  visitor,  hearing 

the  orders  shouted  out:  " Bacon  and  eggs  for  a  lady/7 

"  Bacon  and  eggs  for  a  gentleman/'  "Bacon  and  eggs  for 

a  priest/7  ventured  to  inquire  the  differentiation.     The 

answer  was  prompt  and  simple. 

"  Wan  egg  for  a  lady  /  two  for  a  gentleman  /  and  three  for 

a  priest ! 77 


258 


XXXV 

I  HAVE  solemnly  sworn  my  family  that  when  I  die  I  am 
not  to  be  buried  in  a  "  Necropolis/'  Horrible  thought,  a 
"  city  "  of  the  dead !  To  hate  the  herd  when  living,  and  to 
be  forcibly  associated  with  it  till  the  Day  of  Judgment,  if 
not  evicted  to  make  room  for  fresh  tenants ! 
In  the  very  early  months  of  my  marriage  we  were  obliged 
to  take  up  our  abode  in  a  large  northern  town,  for  Loki's 
future  grandfather  had  to  study  certain  aspects  of  news- 
paper management.  Never  was  anything  more  difficult  to 
find  than  a  roof  for  our  heads  in  that  place  of  teeming 
activities.  Worn  out  with  a  long  and  fruitless  search  we 
were  at  last  landed  in  a  higher  quarter  of  the  town  at  the 
house  of  a  dentist !  The  dentist  was  going  away  for  a  holiday, 
and  was  ready  to  put  at  our  disposal,  for  a  consideration, 
the  whole  of  the  clean,  fresh,  quite  unobjectionable  little 
abode,  reserving  only  one  room—his  chamber  of  horrors ! 
I  interviewed  an  elderly  thin-faced  lady,  with,  as  became  a 
dentist's  mother,  a  very  handsome  smile.  She  brought  me 
to  the  window.  We  looked  down  on  waving  tree-tops 
and  a  wide  space  of  green  in  the  gathering  dusk  of  the 
September  evening. 

"  You  see/'  she  said,  "  we  have  a  most  pleasant  view/' 
I  gazed.    That  stretch  of  green  silence  and  restfulness, 
after  all  those  sordid  roaring  streets,  decided  me. 
"  We  will  take  the  house ! "  I  cried,  in  a  hurry  lest  we 
should  miss  such  a  chance. 

"  I  always  think,"  said  the  dentist's  mother,  smiling  still 
more  broadly,  "  that  it  is  a  great  advantage  to  be  opposite 
the  Necropolis/' 

259 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

Poor  innocent  as  I  was,  and  country  bred,  I  had  no  idea 
of  the  meaning  of  the  word. 

I  was  soon  to  discover.  Funerals  are  of  more  than  daily 
occurrence  in  a  mighty  city.  Oh !  the  processions  that  1 
stared  down  upon  from  the  drawing-room  window,  through 
the  fog  and  the  rain— gloom  generally  enveloped  that  centre 
of  manufactures!  I  was  left  long  hours  alone/  no  one 
but  an  impertinent  French  maid  with  whom  I  could 
exchange  my  ideas.  The  proceedings  in  the  Necropolis 
had  a  hypnotic  attraction  for  me.  I  began  to  feel  quite 
certain  that  it  was  gaping  for  my  poor  little  bones,  and 
that  they  must  inevitably  rest  there.  Finally,  I  extracted 
a  solemn  oath  that,  whatever  happened,  this  should  not  be 
the  case— a  promise  momentarily  soothing,  but  far  from 
lifting  the  weight  of  depression  that  pressed  upon  me. 
To  add  a  touch  of  revolting  comedy  to  my  experiences, 
the  owner  of  the  house  returned  abruptly  from  his  holi- 
day and  took  possession  of  the  locked-up  room  for  an 
afternoon,  for  the  purpose  of  extracting  all  the  teeth  of  a 
special  friend.  I  fled  from  the  house  in  terror,  when  Elise 
<who  hated  me>  informed  me  with  much  gusto  of  the  im- 
pending excitement.  Needless  to  say,  however,  she  re- 
galed me  with  every  groan  on  my  return,  and  all  the 
details  she  had  been  able  to  pick  up  from  the  parlourmaid- 
left  by  the  dentist,  en  parenthese— who  had  counted  the 
teeth. 

The  nightmare  shrinking  from  death  and  its  dreadful  ap- 
panages is  one  that  is  mercifully  passing  from  me.  But  I 
envy  those  who  can  take  the  great  tragic  facts  of  exist- 
ence, not  only  with  simplicity,  but  with  a  kind  of  enjoyable 
interest. 
260 


NECROPOLIS 

A  Hungarian  friend  of  ours  derived  much  solace  in  the  loss 
of  an  adored  mother  by  the  choosing  of  a  coffin—7'  Louis 
XV,  with  little  Watteau  bows  of  ormolu/7  She  smiled 
with  real  joy,  through  her  tears  as  she  described  the  casket 
to  us,  adding : 

"  And  I  have  chosen  just  such  another  for  myself  for  ven 
I  die!" 

She  stared  in  amazement  when  I  remarked  that  I  should  not 
care  what  my  coffin  was  like. 

"  Vat  ? "  she  exclaimed,  "not  like  to  be  buried  in  a  Vatteau 
coffin  ?  But  it  is  so  pretty ! " 

Alas !  she  lies  in  her  pretty  coffin,  and  our  world  is  much 
the  poorer.  But  we  are  sure  that  during  the  long  months 
of  her  last  illness,  when  she  shut  herself  away  from  every 
one  in  the  solitude  of  her  great  Hungarian  property,  to  face 
death  alone,  the  thought  of  those  Watteau  bows  was  a 
distinct  satisfaction. 

Never  was  there  a  creature  so  instinct  with  life  as  she ! 
It  was  little  wonder  she  could  not  imagine  herself  as  past 
caring  for  the  small  pleasures  for  which  she  had  always 
had  so  keen  a  taste.  She  never  lost  the  heart  of  a  child, 
Though  when  last  we  saw  her  she  must  have  been,  as 
years  go,  almost  an  old  woman,  there  was  no  touch  of 
age  about  her :  only  a  snowier  white  of  her  hair  made  her 
more  like  an  adorable  little  Marquise  than  ever.  Her 
pretty  picturesque  ways  were  unchanged,  her  eager  sym- 
pathy, the  delicious  freshness  of  her  mind,  the  lightness, 
the  charm,  the  simplicity. 

She  had  a  soft  oval  face ,-  rich  southern  tints  /  the  bluest 
eyes  between  black  lashes  that  it  is  possible  to  imagine/ 
her  small  nose  like  a  falcon's  beak— which  gave  a  character 

261 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

of  decision,  an  untamed,  spirited  look  to  the  whole  coun- 
tenance. The  word  savage  could  not  apply  to  anything 
so  exquisitely  dainty  in  manner  and  appearance  ,-  and  yet 
one  felt  the  long  line  of  savage  ancestry  at  the  back  of  her, 
a  wildness  no  other  European  nation  would  show  in  such 
a  flower  of  its  race.  And,  to  finish  the  description,  no  one 
had  ever  so  pretty  a  mouth  with  the  smile  of  a  child  and  a 
thousand  fascinating  expressions. 

Life  had  dealt  very  hardly  with  her,  as  is  sometimes  the 
case  with  such  buoyant  souls.  She  lost  all  she  loved,  and 
was  left  in  the  end  with  half  a  province  in  land,  and 
no  creature  nearer  than  the  son  of  a  second  cousin  to 
whom  to  bequeath  the  vast  inheritance. 
Wedded  to  an  English  officer  in  the  Austrian  service,  while 
still  in  her  teens,  one  might  have  thought  she  would  have 
had  a  better  chance  of  domestic  bliss  than  if  her  choice  had 
fallen  upon  one  of  her  own  countrymen  /  since,  above  all 
in  those  middle  Victorian  days,  the  English  home  and  the 
English  virtues  are  so  proverbial.  But  he  was  all  that  a 
husband  ought  not  to  be.  And  her  only  child  died  in 
babyhood.  For  thirty  years  she  devoted  herself  in  an 
alien  land  to  what  she  conceived  to  be  her  duty.  A 
fervent  believer  in  the  higher  destinies  of  man  and  the 
necessity  of  repentance,  she  would  say,  "  I  will  not  give 
up  Johnnie's  soul/' 

The  dashing  Chevau-leger  became  an  old  curmudgeon  of 
the  crankiest  description.  To  a  less  courageous  spirit  life 
would  really  have  been  intolerable  beside  him.  Neverthe- 
less the  small  London  house  near  the  Park,  every  window 
of  which  was  bright  with  flower-boxes,  was  as  gay  within 
as  it  was  without,  and  friends  flocked  to  those  Sunday 
262 


JOHNNIE'S  SOUL 

tea-parties— the  only  entertainments  she  was  permitted  to 
give. 

Well,  she  had  the  reward  she  craved.  Johnnie  "  made  his 
soul/'  in  Irish  parlance,  quite  sufficiently  long  before 
softening  of  the  brain  became  too  marked  to  preclude 
intelligent  action.  And  after  three  years  more  she  was 
able  to  send  that  telegram  to  her  intimates :  "  Released ! " 
It  was  the  cry  of  one  who  had  been  enslaved  and  in  prison 
for  all  her  youth  and  all  her  bright  womanhood. 
But,  characteristically,  "  Johnnie's "  funeral  was  a  matter 
of  great  importance.  He  had  been  very  fond  of  driving  four- 
in-hand,  and  so  there  were  four  horses  to  the  hearse  that 
conveyed  all  that  was  left  of  the  Tyrant  to  Kensal  Green. 
It  was  as  splendid  as  lavish  instructions  could  make  it  / 
and  the  little  widow  would  pop  her  head  out  of  the  window 
at  every  turning  to  watch  the  noble  appearance  of  the 
hearse  with  its  nodding  plumes  and  murmur  contentedly : 
''Poor  Johnnie,  he  vas  so  fond  of  driving  behind  four 
horses :  I  vas  determined  he  should  have  it  for  de  last 
time!" 

We  were  not  a  little  startled  to  receive  a  postcard  a  few 
weeks  later,  containing  the  cryptic  phrase : 
"  Just  re-buried  Johnnie ! " 

Johnnie  had  always  been  a  trial  of  a  unique  description. 
Was  it  possible  that  he  had  put  the  laws  of  nature  at 
defiance  and  returned  to  torment  his  long-suffering  spouse  ? 
But  the  explanation  was  simple.  She  thought  it  so  simple 
herself  as  to  admit  of  its  expression,  as  we  have  said,  on  a 
postcard. 

When  she  had  left  him  among  all  those  ranks  of  dead,  the 
thought  came  to  her  that  he  was  dissatisfied  with  his 

263 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

resting-place  and  would  prefer  to  be  laid  with  his  an- 
cestors. And  so  Johnnie  was  promptly  dug  up  from 
where  he  had  been  deposited  with  so  much  pomp,  removed 
across  half  England,  and  "  reburied." 
If  it  was  true  that,  like  so  many  ghosts,  he  was  particular 
about  his  tomb,  I  can  quite  understand  his  displeasure  in 
this  instance.  As  I  have  said,  I  share  it. 
He  lies  now  just  outside  the  park  where  he  played  as  a 
child,  under  the  lee  of  the  little  church  where  he  said  his 
first  innocent  prayers,  and  his  dust  will  mingle  with  the 
dust  of  his  grandsires. 

Such  a  quiet,  peaceful  spot !     Immense  cornfields  skirt  it 
on  the  one  hand  and  on  the  other  the  great  woods. 
May  I  lie  in  some  such  hallowed,  uncrowded  acre ! 


264 


XXXVI 

IRISH  born  as  I  am,  there  is  something  in  the  breath 
of  Ireland  that  makes  my  heart  rise.  The  sound  of  the 
soft  Irish  voices  is  music  to  my  ear.  I  forgive  the  slipshod 
ways  because  of  the  general  delightfulness.  Distressful 
country  as  it  is— more  than  ever,  now,  alas!  the  battle- 
ground of  factions—from  the  moment  of  our  landing 
joyfully  on  its  shores,  to  the  sad  hour  of  parting,  our 
too  rare  visits  to  Ireland  have  been  punctuated  by  kindly 
and  innocent  laughter.  Impossible,  beloved  people !  They 
break  the  heart  of  the  politician  and  of  the  reformer/  but 
how  enchanting  they  are  to  just  a  foolish  person  such  as  I 
am,  who  likes  to  go  and  live  among  them  and  enjoy  them 
without  political  bias  /  who  can  laugh  at  and  with  them, 
and  love  them  as  they  are ! 

Our  last  journey  to  Ireland  began  in  mirth,  and  ended  in 
the  agonies  of  a  bad  passage  which  accentuated  all  our 
regrets.  The  traject  thither  had  been  accomplished  with 
no  such  drawbacks. 

The  Master  of  the  Villino  is  remarkably  indifferent  to 
anything  the  sea  can  do/  but  I  like  to  have  a  comfortable 
cabin  to  myself,  and  a  large  port-hole  for  the  sea-wind  to 
blow  through.  I  cannot  say  I'm  fond  of  feeling  like  the 
German  lover : 

Himmel-hoch  jauchzend,  zu  Tode  betriibt 

between  wave  and  hollow.  But  it  is  the  woes  of  other 
people  that  really  undo  me.  On  this  particular  passage— 
a  bright  fresh  day  it  was,  with  what's  called,  I  suppose, 
"  a  choppy  sea  "— I  was  quite^ready  to  defy  the  elements, 

265 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

when  suddenly  there  arose,  from  the  next-door  cabin, 
sounds  .  .  .  No—even  in  recollection  these  things  are  not 
to  be  dwelt  upon ! 

"My  dear/7  said  I  to  my  companion,  "let  us  talk  and 
drown  the  outcries  of  this  shameless  and  abandoned 
woman/7 

Fortunately  I  had  a  companion  with  whom  conversation 
is  always  as  easy  as  it  is  interesting.     We  began  to  enjoy 
our  own  pleasant  humour  very  much,  and  did  not  allow  a 
moment's  silence  to  fall  between  us,  lest— 
We  were  travelling  by  North  Wall  /  and  when  the  placidity 
of  the  Liffey  odoriferously  enfolded  us,  we  emerged  cheer- 
fully on  deck  to  join  some  friends,  for  the  sake  of  whose 
agreeable  company  we  had  chosen  this  particular  route. 
The  dear  little  lady  who  was  about  to  be  our  hostess  we 
found  charitably  administering  dry    biscuits    to  a  very 
dilapidated-looking,   green-faced  young  woman  with   the 
unmistakable  appearance  of— but  again,  no ! 
"  Poor  Mrs.  Saunders  has  been  feeling  so  faint/'  said  our 
friend,  with  the  cheerful  sympathy  of  the  good  sailor. 
We  were  introduced  to  the  languid  one. 
"Poor  thing/'  we  said,  "you  do  look  bad!     Have  you 
been  ill?" 

One  is  very  crude  in  one's  questions  on  board  ship. 
"  Oh,  no  /  not  ill ! "    She  flung  the  suggestion  from  her 
with  an  acid  titter.     Then  rolling  a  jaundiced  eye  upon  us : 
"Were  you  ill?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  we  said  /  "  we  quite  enjoyed  the  passage." 
The  sufferer  turned  her  glance  from  our  brutality  to  the 
sympathetic  neighbour. 

"  If  I  could  have  slept,"  she  said  plaintively.  Then  she 
266 


IRISH  VIGNETTES 

looked  back  darkly  at  us.  "There  were  some  horrible 
people  in  the  cabin  next  me,  who  would  talk,  and  talk,  and 
talk/' 

"  Well/'  we  exclaimed,  and  it  was  indeed  in  all  innocence, 
"  you  were  at  least  better  off  than  we  were.  For  there 
was  a  creature  in  the  cabin  next  to  us— the  most  disgusting 
—the  most  unbridled— " 

It  was  not  till  we  saw  the  dreadful  rage  in  her  eyes 
that  we  realized !  It  is  a  horrible  little  anecdote,  but  it 
started  us  laughing  even  before  we  set  foot  on  the 
quays. 

The  next  incident  partakes  of  the  tragi-comedy  in  which 
every  Irish  problem  is  set.  All  Ireland  stands  like  one  of 
those  figures  of  mimes  on  an  old  drop-curtain/  a  laughing 
face  behind  a  tragic  mask— or  indeed  the  reverse.  We 
laughed  while  our  hearts  grew  sad  at  the  sight  of  a 
stalwart  devil-may-care  individual  in  a  frieze  coat  who 
strolled  up  to  a  group  of  jarvies  while  we  sat  in  the  cab 
waiting  for  our  luggage  to  be  loaded.  The  whole  business 
was  conducted  with  a  fine  artful  carelessness.  Now  one, 
now  another  of  the  standing  group  of  cab-drivers  would 
lurch  up  against  him  of  the  frieze  coat  or  clasp  him  jovially 
by  the  hand,  and  there  would  ensue  a  passage  of  coppers 
from  one  grimy  palm  to  ianother.  Then  out  of  a  deep 
side-pocket  of  the  frieze  coat  a  black  bottle  would  be 
drawn,  with  all  the  desinvolture  of  the  conjuring  trick.  No 
doubt  some  four  yards  away  on  either  side  stood  a 
policeman  /  the  illicit  traffic  was  conducted,  so  to  speak, 
under  his  nose.  But,  splendid  fellow  as  he  is,  is  he  not, 
too,  an  Irishman  ?  He  knows  when  to  sniff  in  another 
direction. 

267 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

<And  here  we  may  parenthetically  remember  a  charming 
and  typical  spectacle  which  once  met  our  eyes  in  the 
County  Wicklow :  a  local  police  station,  a  large  placard 
commanding  that  all  dogs  shall  be  muzzled,  and  five  or  six 
curs  of  different  low  degrees  snapping  untrammelled  in  the 
sunshine  at  the  feet  of  two  smiling  members  of  the  con- 
stabulary. 

Some  brutish  Saxon  member  of  our  party  stops  to  point 
out  the  discrepancy, 

"  Unmuzzled,  is  it  ? "  says  the  elder  policeman  genially. 
"  And,  begorra,  so  it  is,  ma'am.  But,  sure,  isn't  that  Tim 
Connolly's  little  dog?  Sure,  what  'ud  we  be  muzzling 
him  for  ?  Thim  orders  is  only  for  stray  dogs  !  "> 

We  drove  away  across  the  cobbled  Dublin  streets  at  a 
hand  gallop.  Whether  the  poor  animal  that  drew  us  had 
to  be  kept  at  this  unnatural  speed  lest  it  should  collapse 
altogether,  or  whether  our  "jarvey"  had  had  more  than 
one  pull  at  the  black  bottle  I  know  not  /  certainly  we  went 
in  peril  of  our  lives.  Shaving  off  corners,  striking  the  edge 
of  the  curb,  oscillating  violently  from  side  to  side,  the 
antique  vehicle  threatened  at  every  leap  and  bound  to 
break  into  fragments  like  a  pantomime  joke.  The  Dublin 
cab  is  a  thing  apart.  From  the  musty  straw  upon  which 
your  feet  rest,  to  the  dilapidated  blue  velveteen  cushion 
upon  which  you  leap,  to  its  wooden  walls  and  rattling 
windows,  you  would  not  find  its  like  upon  any  other  point 
of  the  globe.  It  searches  you  to  your  least  bone  socket  / 
and  the  noise  of  its  career  deafens  your  wails  on  the 
principle  of  the  "  painless  extractor  "  at  the  fair,  who  blows 
a  trumpet  for  every  wrench. 
268 


DRIVEN  IN  STYLE 

It  was  useless  for  us  to  thrust  our  heads  out  of  the  window, 
like  "Bunny  come  to  town"/  the  frightful  clatter  of  an 
arrest,  a  grunt,  and  a  start  at  fresh  speed  were  the  only 
result.  We  trembled  in  every  limb  and  so  did  the  poor 
horse,  as  we  were  at  last  flung  out  in  front  of  our  hotel 
with  a  jerk  that  nearly  broke  the  bottom  of  the  cab 
in  two. 

We  tendered  what  we  knew  to  be  considerably  more  than 
the  fare.  The  driver  surveyed  it  and  looked  at  us,  then 
rolled  a  disgusted  glance  back  to  the  coins,  and  dropped 
them  into  his  pocket. 

"Is  that  all?  And  me  afther  dhriving  you  in  such 
style!" 


269 


XXXVII 

HUMOURS  pursued  us  during  our  brief  sojourn  in  the 
hotel.  We  are  very  fond  of  that  hotel.  It  is  associated 
with  the  repeated  charm  of  its  hospitable  reception  on  each 
of  our  visits.  We  were  glad  to  see  we  were  given  the  same 
set  of  rooms  as  on  a  previous  occasion/  and  when  we 
found  the  same  broken  lock  on  the  door,  we  felt  indeed 
that  we  were  among  old  friends. 

When  our  tea  was  brought— we  were  lying  down  to  rest— 
we  had  however  to  ring  and  protest. 
"  Look  at  this  spoon ! "  we  exclaimed  dramatically. 
The  soft-voiced  maid  looked  at  it  quizzically. 
"What  is   it?"    Then  she  smiled.     "It's   apt  to  have 
been  in  the  honey,  by   the   look  of  it/'   she  observed 
dispassionately. 

"  Please  take  it  away/'  we  said,  "  and  bring  another." 
She  thought  us  strange  and  dull  of  wit.  There  was  a  clean 
napkin  on  every  plate.  But— no  doubt  with  a  mental 
"Ah,  God  help  us.  Travellers  is  queer  folk! "—she 
departed,  we  feel  sure,  no  farther  than  the  passage,  there 
to  wipe  the  honey  off  on  the  inside  of  her  apron. 
The  next  day  saw  us  landed  at  a  small  wayside  station  in 
the  rich  flat  land  of  Meath,  where  we  were  met  by  a  charm- 
ing old-fashioned  "  turn  out,"  a  handsome  waggonette  and 
a  sturdy  pair  of  carriage  horses.  At  least  we  thought  the 
waggonette  old-fashioned  and  delightful,  in  these  motor 
times,-  but  it  seems  it  was  on  the  contrary  new  and 
wonderful. 

The  coachman  surveyed  us  tentatively  two  or  three  times 
while  our  divers  small  goods  were  being  collected,  magis- 
270 


A  GARDEN  IN  MEATH 

terially  directing  the  footman  with  the  butt  end  of  his  whip. 
Presently  he  broke  into  speech : 

"Will  you  be  noticing  the  carriage,  sir?"  he  remarked, 
addressing  the  head  of  the  party.  "  Her  Ladyship's  just 
bought  it.  I  chose  it  for  her  meself,  so  I  did.  It's  a  grand 
contrivance,  you  can  have  it  the  way  it  is  now,  and  it's 
real  comfortable,  isn't  it,  sir?  But  sure,  you  can  turn 
it  into  an  omnibus.  And  you'd  never  believe  now, 
how  many  it  would  hold.  I  drove  six  ladies  to  a  ball 
in  it  the  other  night,  and  not  one  of  them  crushed  on 
me— And  fine  large  ladies  they  were,"  he  observed 
admiringly. 

"  We  do  wish  he  would  not  tell  every  one  that,"  observed 
one  of  the  "  large  ladies  "  a  little  later.  "  Every  time  he's 
gone  to  the  station  in  the  new  waggonette  this  summer 
he's  told  that  story." 

But  she  was  quite  good-humoured  and  amused.  Indeed, 
her  largeness  was  of  the  beautiful  order.  It  was  no 
wonder  the  coachman  was  proud  of  conveying  it  un- 
crushed. 

The  gardens  where  these  hostesses  dwelt  were  pleasantly 
green  and  flowery.  There  was  the  usual  high-walled 
garden.  Villino  Loki,  with  its  absurd  terraces,  can  never 
dream  of  attaining  to  such  an  enclosure  of  antique  charm. 
For  if  we  walled  in  the  Kitchen  and  Reserve  Garden  at 
the  foot  of  our  hill  we  should  wall  out  the  moor  from 
below,  and  obstruct  our  sweeping  vision  from  above.  But 
my  heart  yearns  to  an  old  walled  garden.  A  place  quite 
apart,  with  its  mingled  odours  of  herb  and  flower  and 
ripening  fruit,-  with  its  perpetual  murmur  of  bees,  its 
tangled  walks,  its  old  bushes  of  Rosemary  and  Lavender, 

271 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

its  mossy  Apple-trees,  its  crisp  Parsley  beds,  its  tumble- 
down greenhouses. 

This  particular  walled  garden  was  a  very  good  specimen 
of  its  kind.  It  was  here  that  our  ignorance  first  made 
acquaintance  with  the  invaluable  Cosmia/  that  treasure 
of  the  herbaceous  border 
that  keeps  on 
blooming  in  the 
face  of  adversity 
from  June 
till  Novem- 
ber. There 
was  also  a 
huge  bed  of 
Salvias,  one 
sheet  of  gen- 
tian  blue. 

<Why  cannot  we  grow  Salvias  like  that?)  It  ran  at  the 
foot  of  an  overgrown,  very  old  rose  plot,  the  trees  of 
which  had  developed  into  fairy-tale  luxuriance.  And 
opposite,  across  the  gravelled  path,  which  from  old  asso- 
ciations we  prefer  to  any  other  species  of  walk,  was  a 
field  of  Snap-dragon  against  the  high  wall  where  the  leaves 
of  the  plum  branches  were  reddening  as  they  clung.  Duly 
mossed  was  this  old  wall,  and  richly  lichened  /  overtopped 
by  the  great  trees  without.  These  swayed  to  the  mild  Irish 
wind,  with  long,  pleasant,  choiring  sounds,  the  rooks 
cawing  as  they  circled  in  them.  It  was  small  wonder  that 
I  should  have  felt  content  and  at  peace  as  I  stood  there— 
if  only  my  heart  had  not  swelled  with  envy  over  those 
Salvias  !  But  one  can't  be  the  owner  of  an  Italian  Villino 
272 


THE  HOLLY   TREK 


- 


Hi  »>i  ^-">  YI     '    #1 

f¥. 


CURBED  AMBITIONS 

on  a  Surrey  Highland  and  encompass  the  antique  peace  of 
a  centuries-old  Irish  home.  One  must  be  reasonable— as  a 
French  governess  of  our  youth  used  to  say  to  us  when 
she  began  her  most  lengthy  harangues.  "  Voyons — de  deux 
choses  I'une  .  .  ." 

The  park  was  typically  Irish,  and 
possessed 
some  won- 
derful trees. 
Amongst 
others  a 
chestnut, 
four  or  five 
immense 
branches  of 
which,  sweeping 
to  the  ground, 
had  taken  root  again 
and  started  fresh  trees,  form- 
ing a  singular  tropical-looking  grove.  How  children  would 
have  delighted  in  such  a  leafy  palace,  roofed  in  and  pillared 
of  its  own  stateliness ! 


Memories  of  laughter  pursue  us  at  every  stage  of  those 
weeks.  There  was  the  visit  to  a  neighbouring  castle/  a 
genuine  old  castle  this,  but  irretrievably  "  restored  "  in  that 
bygone  period  of  history  when  Pugin  reigned  supreme. 
It  was  Sunday,  and  we  found  the  Chatelaine— a  little  lady 
renowned  for  her  vivacity  and  charm— out  in  the  field  with 
her  children  and  her  lord,  energetically  teaching  hockey  to 

s  273 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

the  young  men  and  women  of  the  village.  Her  little  boy 
was  running  up  and  down  after  her,  wringing  his  hands  and 
ejaculating,  "Mamma,  ye'll  be  kilt!  Mamma,  ye'll  be 
kilt ! "  to  perfectly  regardless  ears. 

In  a  whirl  of  energy  we  were  rushed  into  tea  /  and,  while 
drawing  off  her  loose  gloves  and  flinging  them  at  random 
into  a  corner,  our  hostess's  tongue,  which  was  as  nimble 
as  her  little  feet,  never  ceased  wagging : 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  the  smell!  Oh,  it's  a  terrible 
smell.  But  it's  only  the  dogs,  ye  know.  We've  been 
washing  them.  They're  sick,  poor  things.  Not  infectious, 
ye  needn't  be  a  bit  afraid.  Only  mange,  or  something. 
It's  the  sulphur  in  the  soap,  ye  know.  Come  in,  come 
in !— Oh,  I  do  hope  we  have  got  something  fit  to  eat ! 
Katie,  Katie!  <Katie's  me  eldest  daughter)  Katie,  what 
have  we  got  ?  Ah,  it's  horrid !— Ah,  I  don't  know  what's 
the  matter  with  them.— Yes,  it's  a  fine  big  room.  We 
were  dancing  here  last  week.  YOU  wouldn't  think  it  to 
look  at  it  now,  would  you  ?  'Pon  my  word !  I  was 
thinking  to  meself  that  night,  '  It's  a  queer  world  we  live 
in,  with  all  those  saints  looking  down  at  us  with  their  bare 
legs,  and  we  with  our  bare  backs ! '  Oh,  yes,  they're 
very  grand  old  paintings,  I  dare  say !  But  there  is  a  deal 
of  bare  legs  about  them.— Will  you  have  any  more? 
Ah,  no,  ye  can't  eat  it !— I  don't  wonder,  I  can't  meself.— 
Will  you  come  into  the  garden  ?  I'd  like  to  be  showing 
you  the  garden.  Where's  me  gloves  ?— Where's  me  yellow 
gloves  ?  Katie,  did  ye  see  me  yellow  gloves  ?  Ah,  never 
mind!  This  way.— I've  been  making  a  new  herbaceous 
border.  Ah,  'pon  me  word,  if  they've  not  gone  and 
locked  the  garden  door !  Sunday's  the  mischief !  Never 
274 


AN  IRISH  CHATELAINE 

mind,  I'll  ring  the  bell.  Green !  Green,  Johnny  Green, 
are  ye  there?  Is  Mrs.  Green  there?  Is  Patsy  there? 
Where's  young  Condren  ?  Ah,  they're  all  out !  But  I'll 
not  be  beaten.— Maybe  I'll  get  it  open.  Will  ye  push, 
now?  I'll  turn  the  handle.  Give  a  good  shove.  It's 
an  old  lock.  Ah,  devil  a  bit  of  it !  Will  ye  give  me  your 
stick.— No,  thank  ye.  I'd  rather  hit  it  meself." 
Even  to  her  it  was  impossible  to  continue  talking,  while 
she  was,  as  she  herself  would  have  expressed  it,  "  laying 
on  to  the  garden  door."  Scarlet,  panting,  dishevelled,  but 
still  completely  fascinating,  she  desisted  at  last  and  handed 
back  the  stick  with  a  smile  and  gasp,  and  a  resigned: 
"  Ah,  I  clean  forgot,  I  see  how  it  is  now.  They're  all  off 
to  the  funeral  of  the  priest's  brother's  sister." 


275 


XXXVIII 

„- 

FROM  the  rich  plains  of  Meath  to  the  barren  lands  of 
Galway,  it  is  a  far  cry  and  an  unforgettable  journey.  The 
country  grows  more  and  more  desolate,  and  grand  in 
desolation,  as  one  approaches  the  Atlantic.  There  was 
an  orange  sunset  that  evening,  over  an  illimitable  stretch 
of  bog,  a  vision  of  savage,  haunting  beauty  that  went  with 
us  into  the  darkness  of  the  fast  closing  day  like  a  strain  of 
wild  music. 

Ireland  has  always  been  as  a  living  creature  to  her  children. 
She  has  taken,  in  their  fanciful  minds,  a  distinct  personality. 
To  get  such  a  glimpse  of  her  as  that,  is  to  understand  the 
passionate  ardour  of  fealty  which  she  has  had  the  power 
to  inspire/  to  understand  how  she  has  come  to  be 
"Kathleen  na  Hoolihan/'  and  "My  dark  Rosaleen/'  to 
those  poet  hearts.  We  were  speeding  now  to  that  very 
corner  of  land  from  which  her  younger  lovers  have  chiefly 
sprung. 

It  was  pitch  dark  when  we  alighted  at  a  town  which  had 
once  been  large  and  prosperous  and  was  now  forlornly 
sunk  in  decay  /  mute  witness,  like  so  many  others,  to  that 
act  of  tyranny— blunder  and  crime—the  effects  of  which 
England  can  never  wipe  away. 

Our  kind  friends  had  ordered  "  a  carriage  from  the  hotel " 
to  meet  us.  We  had  a  long  cross-country  drive  before  us. 
Looking  doubtfully  by  the  light  of  the  station  lamp  at  the 
two  emaciated  animals  that  were  to  draw  us,  we  wondered, 
in  our  tired  brains,  if  two  bad  horses  are  not  worse  than 
one.  It  had  begun  to  drizzle  rain,  a  fine  soft  rain  that  is 
like  a  caress  in  the  air. 
276 


A  TYPICAL  JARVEV 

If  anything  could  beat  the  Dublin  cab,  it  was  that  Galway 
carriage.  We  set  off  lurching  and  rattling  /  and  soon,  the 
wind  catching  us  from  over  the  fields,  the  rain  began  to 
strike  in  across  the  open  windows.  To  have  a  window 
up  seemed  the  simple  remedy  /  but  things  simple  elsewhere 
are  not  so  in  the  West  of  Ireland.  One  window  was  as 
impossible  to  lift  out  of  its  socket  as  the  oyster  out  of  its 
closed  shells,  for  it  was  strapless.  We  fell  upon  the  other 
strap  and  instantly  the  window  shot  outwards  at  right 
angles,  with  the  evident  intention  of  casting  itself  on  the 
road,  had  we  not  held  it  despairingly  by  its  shabby  append- 
age. If  you  have  ever  tried  to  hold  a  window  in  that 
position  by  its  strap  you  will  know  how  agonizing  is  the 
process.  The  driver  was  hailed. 

"  Look  here !  Your  window's  loose !— You'd  better  stop 
and  put  it  back/' 

The  slogging  trot  of  the  horses  slackened,  and  over  his 
shoulder  the  man  of  Galway  demanded : 
"  Is  it  the  windy  on  the  left,  or  the  wan  to  the  right  of 
ye?" 

"  The  left,  the  left !    Oh,  do  be  quick ! " 
"  The  left,  is  it  ?    Sure,  isn't  that  the  wan  with  the  sthrap  ? " 
He  jerked  his  reins  and  clucked  at  his  horses.    What 
more  could  we  want?     Wasn't  that  the  one  with  the 
"sthrap?" 

With  great  difficulty,  with  imminent  risk  to  the  life  of  the 
window  and  our  own  safety,  we  got  the  recalcitrant  pane 
back  into  its  socket,  and  discovered  that  by  dint  of 
judicious  manipulation,  and  a  tight  hold  of  the  "  sthrap," 
it  was  possible  to  shelter  the  most  neuralgic  of  the  party. 
A  ten  Irish  miles'  drive  along  the  stoniest  of  roads,  through 

277 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

complete  darkness—for  there  was  only  a  partial  glimmer 
from  one  carriage-lamp  half  the  way,  which  then  became 
extinct  altogether— it  is  something  of  an  enterprise !  But 
it  was  worth  it  to  find  such  a  welcome  at  the  end  ! 
A  "  Gothic "  mansion,  dating  from  the  early  part  of  last 
century,  »Kilcoultra  is  outwardly  a  very  grand  pile  and 
stands  nobly  in  the  midst  of  a  rolling  park,  reclaimed  from 
the  wild  stony  land  of  Galway.  And  inside,  the  first  impres- 
sion is  like  stepping  in  to  the  glories  of  a  missal  page.  The 
whole  house  is  homogeneous  and  entirely  successful  in  its 
mediaeval  colouring.  On  the  walls  are  gorgeous  enamel 
blues,  peacock  greens  or  yet  carmine  crimsons  appropri- 
ately set  with  fleurs-de-lis,  maltese  cross  or  some  other 
conventional  device  in  gold  /  ceiling  and  cornices  are  richly 
illuminated  to  correspond.  To  find  this  glow  of  colour  in 
the  midst  of  the  melancholy  greys  and  greens  of  the  western 
landscape,  under  the  low  drifting  cloud-ridden  skies,  has  a 
great  charm  /  it  has  a  poetic  Maeterlinckian  atmosphere. 
There  is  something  too  of  the  delicate  sadness  of  an  old 
romance  in  the  lives  of  these  kindly  ladies  who  rule  so 
wisely  over  the  lands  left  to  them  by  their  brother— the  last 
of  his  name.  He  was  a  man  round  whom  justly  centred 
unusual  hopes  and  ambitions.  Now  he,  who  had  so  great 
a  heart  and  so  splendid  a  mind,  lies  in  the  ruined  chapel  in 
the  park,  alone.  The  chapel  is  roofless.  It  is  a  nobly 
solitary  and  fit  resting-place  for  one  who  was  nobly  apart 
from  the  petty  aims  of  his  contemporaries ,-  who  lived  and 
died  true  to  his  ideals ,-  whose  work  still  prospers  in  the 
freed  lands  of  his  people.  He  gave  up  much  for  Ireland, 
and  Ireland  gave  him  nothing  at  all  in  return  .  .  .  except  that 
wonderful  sleeping-place  with  the  changing  sky  overhead. 
278 


A  GALWAV  DEMESNE 

They  say  there  is  no  such  word  in  the  Irish  language  as 
gratitude,  and  yet— 

My  Kiicoultra  hostess  drove  me  round  the  property  on 
the  day  after  my  arrival,  and  drew  the  pony  to  the  stand- 
still on  a  height  that  finely  dominated  the  park  and  house. 
When  I  had  duly  admired  the  view  she  pointed  with  her 
whip  to  a  little  white  cottage  that  stood  a  few  yards  away 
and  began  a  kindly  tale  of  the  old  woman  who  had  long 
lived  there  and  had  but  recently  passed  away. 
"  When  Fd  come  round  to  see  her,  I  used  to  find  her,  times 
out  of  number,  leaning  over  the  wall,  gazing  down  at  Kil- 
coultra.  Always  she'd  be  leaning  over  the  wall,  staring 
down  at  the  house.  And  one  day  I  said  to  her, '  Mary, 
what  in  the  world  makes  you  stand  there  like  that?' 
And  she  answered  me,  Tm  looking  down  on  the  roof 
that  shelters  me  lovely  master ! ' " 

"  My  lovely  master ! "  A  fragrant  thing  to  have  become 
to  the  poor  that  live  on  your  soil !  When  we  reach  a 
sphere  where  things  are  judged  by  different  standards  and 
higher  measures  than  we  can  now  conceive,  how  far  will 
not  such  a  title  outweigh  any  paltry  worldly  honour ! 
Yet  if  the  memory  of  its  lost  master  dominates  and  haunts 
all  Kiicoultra  house  and  lands,  there  is  nothing  to  sadden 
one  in  the  thoughts  it  inspires  /  and  our  stay  there  is  alto- 
gether full  of  charm  and  pleasure. 

Not  only  are  the  ladies  a  fund  of  anecdote,  racy  of  the 
soil,-  not  only  do  they  live  delightfully  in  touch  with  their 
peasantry,  with  eye  and  ear  ever  ready  to  catch  the  humour 
and  the  pathos  about  them/  but  they  are  cultured,  far- 
travelled  beings.  Not  much  in  the  outer  world  escapes 
their  knowledge  and  shrewd  apprehension. 

279 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

Home  topics,  however,  are  what  appeals  to  their  visitors 
most. 

"  Carrie/7  the  younger  sister  will  say  to  the  elder, "  I  heard 
Whalen  the  guard,  and  Tim  Rooney  the  porter,  at  Athen- 
more  Station,  talking  together.  And  Tim  is  thinking  of 
making  up  to  a  young  lady,  you  know,  and  I  suppose  he's 
always  talking  about  it,  for  Whalen  was  saying  to  him 
just  as  I  came  up  :  '7Pon  me  word,  I  wish  you  were  mar- 
ried, and  had  your  family  rared  on  me!7  They  had  a 
great  jollification  at  our  station  the  other  night/7  she  goes 
on,  turning  to  us.  "And  they  brewed  the  punch  in  the 
station  bell!  Whalen7s  a  very  humorous  man/7  she 
proceeds.  "  They  used  to  stop  the  express  from  Galway 
at  Athenmore  when  required  /  but  there  were  complaints  of 
the  delay  and  orders  came  from  Dublin  it  wasn7t  to  be 
done  on  any  account.  But  it7s  a  recent  regulation  and 
everybody  doesn7t  know  about  it.  And  the  other  day 
there  was  terrible  work,  for  there  was  Father  Blake  and 
the  Doctor  both  counting  on  it  for  an  urgent  sick  call- 
dying,  they  said  the  poor  man  was. 
'"you'll  have  to  stop  the  train  for  this  once,  Whalen/ 
says  Father  Blake. 

" '  I'll  maybe  save  him  yet/  says  the  doctor. 
"'I    couldn't,    yer   riverence/  says  Whalen/  'it's    as 
much    as    me   place   is   worth.     Don't    you   be   askin7 
me,  doctor.    It  7ud  be  me  ruin.     The  company7s  very 
strict.7 

" '  Think  of  his  poor  soul/  says  the  priest. 
" '  I'll  hold  ye  responsible  for  his  life/  says  the  doctor. 
" '  Wirra,  I  can't/  says  poor  Whalen,  and  calls  up  Tim. 
'  Tell  his  riverence,  Tim/  says  he,  '  tell  his  riverence  and 
280 


IRISH  WITS 

the  doctor  that  I  can't  be  disobeying  orders.  .  .  .  And 
begorra,  she's  due  this  minute!  Up  into  the  signal-box 
with  you.  And  down  with  that  signal,  so  the  express  can 
get  by/  says  he.  And  as  Tim  starts  off  at  a  great  pace, 
Whalen  shouts  after  him,  '  And  I'm  sure  I  hope  ye  11  get 
it  to  work,  Tim,  for  it's  terrible  stiff  it  is,  that  same  signal, 
and  it  at  danger ! ' 

"  Well,  whether  he  had  winked  at  Tim,  or  what,  but  Tim 
worked  and  worked. 

" '  I  can't  get  it  to  move,'  he  says.  '  Will  you  come  up 
yourself,  Mr.  Whalen,  sir,  and  have  a  try  ? ' 
"  And,  oh,"  says  Miss  Margaret,  in  fits  of  laughter,  "  the 
way  the  two  of  them  went  on  in  that  signal-box,  and  the 
way  Whalen  pumped  and  pulled,  and  at  last  he  cries, 
'  There's  no  help  for  it,  it's  stuck !  And  sure  the  com- 
pany can't  blame  me,  if  the  machinery's  out  of  order,' 
says  he.  '  Well,  there's  wan  good  thing,  your  riverence, 
the  thrain  'ull  have  to  stop  now,  anyhow/" 
We  laugh  a  good  deal  during  those  pleasant  meals  at 
Kilcoultra.  Not  one  dull  moment  does  the  house  hold 
for  us,  and  we  don't  want  any  better  company  than  that 
of  the  two  dear  ladies. 

"We've  got,"  Miss  Caroline,  the  elder,  explains  to  me 
carefully,  "  a  very  careful  coachman,  a  very  steady  man, 
so  you  needn't  be  the  least  nervous  driving  out  with  us. 
He  was  selected,  indeed,  because  he  could  be  trusted.  It 
wouldn't  do  for  us  unprotected  women,  you  know,"  she 
says  in  all  seriousness,  "to  be  risking  our  necks  with  a 
tipsy  coachman." 

Two  days  we  are  driven  by  this  paragon.  The  third  day 
there  sits  a  stranger  on  the  box. 

281 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

"I  hope/'  says  Miss  Carrie  apologetically,  "that  you 
don't  mind  his  being  out  of  livery/' 

"  The  fact  is,  Regan  had  an  accident  last  night/'  explains 
Miss  Margaret.  "He  fell  into  the  old  gravel  pit  going 

back  home  and  cut  his  head  open,  and " 

"  It  was  my  fault  entirely,"  interrupts  Miss  Caroline  in 
distressed  accents.  "I  had  to  send  him  in  to  Galway 
town,  and  to  tell  him  to  wait  and  bring  back  Captain 
Blake.  And  that  meant  loitering  an  hour." 
"  Dear,  dear ! "  Miss  Margaret  clacks  her  tongue.  "  That 
was  very  unfortunate !  He— such  a  steady  man !  But  an 
hour  in  Galway  town  .  .  . ! " 

"  It's  only  what  might  have  been  expected,"  Miss  Caroline 
concludes.  "I  blame  myself  entirely.—!  generally,"  she 
adds,  turning  to  me,  "  avoid  leaving  him  any  time  in  the 
town,  you  know." 

And  the  best  of  it  is  that  Regan  remains  in  their  minds 
"  the  steady  man."  How  impossible  it  is  for  the  stranger 
to  understand  Ireland  and  Ireland's  ways !  How  much 
humour  must  you  have— and  what  unlimited  patience! 
There  is  nothing,  of  course,  that  so  conduces  to  patience 
as  a  pleasant  sense  of  humour. 

The  ladies  are  the  Providence  of  the  district.  There  is  a 
room  at  the  back  of  the  great  gallery  filled  nearly  to  the 
ceiling  with  rolls  of  homespun  made  by  the  peasant  women 
in  the  villages.  Whenever  a  cottage  mother  is  in  want  of 
money  she  runs  up  to  Miss  Margaret  or  Miss  Caroline, 
bringing  or  promising  the  product  of  her  loom.  A  good 
deal  of  money  is  advanced/  a  good  deal  paid  in  this 
manner,  chiefly  out  of  the  ladies'  generous  pockets. 

"Of  course,  poor  things,  you  must  know  the  way  to 
282 


A  STEADY  MAN 

take  them/'  says  Miss  Caroline  in  her  Irish  way.  "  One 
of  them  will  come  up  and  declare  they'll  all  be  'lost 
entirely,  ruined  out  and  out '  for  the  want  of  five  pounds. 
'Are  you  sure  you  couldn't  do  with  thirty  shillings, 
now?'  I  say  to  them.  'Oh,  Miss  Caroline '—it  will  be 
then—7  as  thrue  as  I'm  a  living  woman,  I  couldn't  do  with 
less  than  two  pound  ten!'  ...  I  get  at  the  truth  that 
way,"  she  adds. 

It  is  Miss  Margaret  who  undertakes  the  sale  of  goods 
which  have  already  cost  Kilcoultra  so  dear,  and  no  one 
can  say  that  she  shows  a  commercial  spirit. 
"  Let  me  see  now,"  she  will  say,  fingering  the  stuff— and 
splendid  stuff  it  is— with  tentative  finger  and  thumb.  "  I 
think  we  paid  three-and-tenpence  a  yard  for  this,  or  maybe 
it  was  four  shillings,  but— with  a  delighted  smile— "  I'll  let 
you  have  it  for  one-and-six,  if  you're  sure— really  sure— you 


283 


XXXIX 

THE  country  all  about  Kilcoultra  is  typically  wild  and 
melancholy.  The  fields  stretch,  barren  and  yellowing, 
strewn  with  giant  stones.  Except  where  sombre  belts  of 
woodland  mark  the  great  estates,  there  is  scarcely  a  tree 
to  break  the  monotony,-  a  monotony  intensified  by  the 
low,  unending  lines  of  rough  grey  walls  that  border  every 
road.  But  there 
is  a  kind  of 
poetry  even 
in  this  deso- 
lation, and  a 
satisfaction  to 
who  love  the  f 
dom  of  unbounded 
horizons.  Then  the 

mountains  of  Clare  stretch  their  incomparable  plum  and 
grape  colours  against  the  sky.  The  colour  of  Ireland  is  a 
thing  scarcely  realized  over  here,  where,  somehow,  hues 
seem  washed  out.  "  In  England  everything  has  got  grey 
in  it/'  an  artist  friend  of  ours  discontentedly  avers. 
We  are  taken  across  the  county  to  a  castle  standing  by  a 
lake,  which  is  a  place  of  wonder.  It  is  a  castle  no  older, 
in  its  mediaeval  sturdiness,  than  the  Gothic  mansion  we 
are  staying  in,  but  quite  as  convincingly  built.  Loughcool 
is  a  realm  of  beauty.  At  the  end  of  the  long  approach 
the  road  rises  very  steeply  through  a  stern  grove  of  pines. 
All  at  once,  as  you  approach  the  summit  of  this  dark 
woodland,  the  ground  breaks  away  abruptly  on  the  right, 
and,  between  the  pines,  far,  far  below,  lies  the  lake  smiling, 
284 


THE  COLOUR  OF  THE  WEST 

and  on  its  banks  what  is  called  "the  hidden  garden"— a 
stretch  of  fairy  beauty.  Words  are  poor  things  to  de- 
scribe the  vision  which  breaks  so  unexpectedly  upon  the 
eye.  Everything  that  gardening  art  can  do  has  been 

accomplished 
at  Loughcool. 
YOU  have  ter- 
races and  a 
glory  of  roses 
overhanging  the 
water  even  this  late  Sep- 
tember/ and  there  are  "Auratum" 
Lilies  rising  in  splendid  groups  on  each 
side  of  a  grass  walk  that  runs  grandly  into  the 
woods  between  stately  trees.  The  lady  of  Lough- 
cool  is  fighting  a  hard  fight  to  make  Azaleas  and  Rhodo- 
dendrons grow  in  the  limy  soil  /  but  it  is  a  question  whether 
the  struggle  is  worth  while. 

"We  have  given  it  up/'  says  the  sensible  chatelaine  of 
Kilcoultra. 

We  smiled  privately.  Villino  Loki  has  at  least  some 
points  of  superiority. 


We  made  another  expedition,  over  the  border  into  County 
Clare.  A  white  plastered  pillared  house  this,  dating  from 
the  terrible  neo-Italian  period  of  the  end  of  the  last  century. 
There  dwells  an  eccentric  gentleman,  one  of  the  chief 
instigators  of  the  Young  Ireland  movement  /  but  he  was 
unfortunately  away.  We  visited  the  house,  and  were 
entertained  by  his  housekeeper.  This  lady's  name  was 

285 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

Mrs.  Quintan,  and  she  was  an  old  friend  of  our  hostesses. 
We  think  we  enjoyed  that  afternoon  as  well  as  any  of  our 
excursions  /  and  certainly  we  laughed  as  much  as  ever. 
Mrs.  Quinlan  came  creaking  down  in  a  flowing  black  silk, 
which  brought  me  instantly  back  to  the  Sundays  of  my 
childhood  and  the  genteel  appearance  of  my  mother's  maid. 
We  sat  in  the  early  Victorian  drawing-room  and  had  tea 
and  Albert  biscuits,  listening  with  unremitting  amusement 
to  the  conversation  between  Miss  Caroline  and  Mrs. 
Quinlan.  Be  it  mentioned  that  the  owner  of  Curriestown 
has  long  been  a  widower  and  that  the  question  of  his  re. 
marriage  has  never  ceased  to  agitate  the  bosoms  of  his 
neighbours  since  the  event,  so  many  years  ago,  which 
qualified  him  once  again  for  the  matrimonial  market. 
Mrs.  Quinlan  stood,  her  perfectly  unwashed  hands  crossed 
on  the  last  button  of  her  black  silk  bodice  /  her  faded  face 
all  over  lines,  querulous,  good-humoured,  quizzical,  under 
the  untidy  wisps  of  her  yellow-grey  hair/  and,  while  we 
ate  and  drank,  she  flowed  continuously  on,  stimulated  by 
a  question  here  and  there,  or  an  appropriate  comment, 
"And  indeed,  Miss  Caroline,  it's  very  busy  I  am.  For 
sure,  didn't  the  master  wire  there'd  be  twelve  of  them  here 
the  day  after  to-morrow  ?  It's  getting  all  the  rooms  ready 
I  am,  and  the  Professor  here  and  all.  Not  that  he's  much 
trouble,  the  crathur.  Them's  his  shoes,  in  the  hall  beyant 
I'm  sorry  he's  out,  then,  for  it's  the  queer-looking  body  he 
is.  He's  wearing  the  kilt,  ye  know,  Miss  Carrie.  And 
not  a  word  out  of  him  but  Irish!  Musha,  I  don't  know 
what  he'd  be  saying  I—It's  a  deal  of  store  they  do  be  setting 
on  speaking  the  Irish  now,  Miss." 

Here  Mrs.  Quinlan,  seized  with  a  paroxysm  of  silent  laugh- 
286 


SPEAKING  THE  IRISH 

ter,  claps  one  of  the  grimy  hands  over  her  mouth  and 
doubles  herself  in  two. 

"  The  master's  wild  about  it,  God  help  him ! "  she  proceeds 
presently.  "But  sure,  I  do  be  tellin'  him,  I'm  too  old  to  be 
thinkin'  about  that  kind  of  thing  at  my  time  of  life.  Troth, 
and  it's  queer  times  we  do  be  having!  Isn't  the  master 
bringing  back  a  black  lady  on  us ! " 

"  A  black  lady  ? "  ejaculated  Miss  Carrie,  startled  out  of 
her  placidity.     "  Good  gracious,  Mrs.  Quinlan ! " 
"  Indeed,  and  it's  true.  A  rale  black  lady  I  hear  she  is,  and 
it's  in  Paris  he  met  her." 
"In  Paris!" 

It  seemed  a  strange  place  from  which  to  bring  a  black  lady. 
We  were  all  full  of  the  liveliest  interest. 
"  I  suppose,"  says  Miss  Caroline,  "  you  mean  a  very  dark 
lady,  Mrs.  Quinlan— a  brunette?" 

"  I  do  not,  then—rale  black  she  is,  I'm  told.    Out  of  the 
Indies,  or  Africa,  or  some  of  them  places." 
"  Dear  me ! "  Our  hostess  is  much  puzzled.  "  Is  he  think- 
ing of  marrying  her,  Mrs.  Quinlan  ?  " 
"I  wouldn't  put  it  past  him.     I  wouldn't  put  anything 
past  him,  Miss  Carrie  ! " 

A  black  lady!  Was  this  to  be  the  end  of  twenty -five 
years'  expectation  ? 

"  Well,  now,  and  is  he  bringing  her  with  him  to-morrow 
night?" 

"  Och,  maybe  he  is !  He's  coming  by  the  midnight  train, 
Miss  Carrie,  and  the  Lord  knows  what  time  in  the  world 
they'll  be  up  here." 

"  Oh,  he  must  mean  to  marry  her ! "  says  Miss  Carrie, 
and  Mrs.  Quinlan  laughs  again  exhaustedly  with  an  under- 

287 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

current  of  plaintiveness,  and  remarks  once  more  that  she 
wouldn't  put  it  past  him. 

We  go  through  the  house  in  Mrs.  Quinlan's  wake.  There 
is  something  that  looks  like  a  kitchen  rubber  laid  over  one 
corner  of  the  mahogany  table  in  the  great  red-papered 
dining-room  /  and  on  it  a  crusty  loaf  flanks  a  dim  glass 
and  a  cracked  plate.  Mrs.  Quintan  casts  a  phrase  of  ex- 
planation as  she  trails  us  around. 

"  He  do  be  looking  for  his  bit  of  dinner  early/'  We  pre- 
sume "  he  "  to  be  the  "  crathur  that  gives  no  trouble/' 
We  pass  through  a  bewildering  series  of  bedrooms.  The 
damp  has  been  coming  in  very  copiously  at  Curriestown. 
Mrs.  Quinlan  points  out  the  worst  places  in  each  apart- 
ment as  we  go  along : 

"  Look  athere,  now !  Just  cast  your  eye  on  that,  Miss 
Carrie,  and  sure  it's  nothing  to  what's  behind  the  bed.  If 
ye  could  see  the  way  it  is  at  the  back  of  that  press,  Miss 
Carrie,  you'd  be  hard  set  to  believe  it.  Och,  the  house  is 
in  a  tirrible  state  !  Me  heart's  broke  pulling  the  furniture 
about,  thrying  to  get  them  bad  bits  covered." 
Some  one  suggests  that  perhaps  the  owner  will  have  it 
painted  for  the  black  lady.  But  Honoria  Quinlan  is  still 
of  opinion  that  you  couldn't  tell  what  he'd  be  at. 


On  the  way  back  we  burst  a  tyre,  not  far  from  one  of 
those  hamlets  which  are  typical  of  the  western  coast.  Set 
in  surroundings  of  the  wildest  beauty,  it  is  practically 
deserted.  The  four  walls  of  the  ruined  chapel  gaping  to 
the  sky,  and  the  long  row  of  empty  broken-down  cottages 
testify  still  to  the  ruthless  policy  that  laid  the  country 
288 


CLARE  ROADS 

waste  in  far  Cromwellian  times.  Perhaps  there  are  no 
more  than  fifteen  smoking  hearths  left,  beaten  by  passionate 
seas,  guarded  by  the  tremendous  black  cliffs.  Life  here,  it 
would  seem,  must  be  hard  won  indeed  from  stony  fields 
and  treacherous  waters. 

Very  soon,  while  the  chauffeur  worked  at  the  wheel,  a 
small  knot  of  onlookers  gathers  about  us  /  children  with  a 
tangled  thatch  of  bleached  hair,  and  eyes  that  look  half- 
fiercely,  halfappealingly  out  from  under  it.  Black  eyes 
they  seem  at  first  sight,  set  as  they  are  with  raven  lashes. 
It  is  only  on  examination  that  you  find  them  to  be  richly 
violet.  There  is  an  old  man  fantastically  attired  in  a  blanket 
laced  with  twine  down  to  his  knees.  Such  a  creature  of 
savage  primitiveness  he  seems  that  one  of  the  party  is 
moved  to  ask  him  humorously  if  he  has  ever  driven  in  a 
motor-car.  He  surveys  us  with  his  mild  blue  eyes  that  are 
as  innocent  as  the  child's  beside  him,  and  shakes  his  shaggy 
white  head. 

"  Bedad,  I  have/'  he  then  says  unexpectedly.  "  And  sure 
it  never  touched  the  ground  at  all  but  an  odd  time  between 
here  and  Connemara," 

Yet  motor-cars  must  be  very  rare  apparitions  along  these 
Clare  roads  /  for  at  their  approach  the  people  fling  them- 
selves sideways  into  the  ditches  and  against  the  walls, 
when  they  cannot  escape  through  a  gap  into  the  fields. 
Even  the  dogs  will  flee.  One  poor  Collie  flattened  himself 
on  a  bank  in  a  paroxysm  of  terror  that  we  cannot  forget. 
When  I  remember  how  along  the  English  roads  my  heart 
is  for  ever  in  my  mouth  over  the  callous  indifference  of  the 
British  cur,  I  realize  that  canine  folk  are  very  much  like 
human  beings  when  all  is  said  and  done. 

t  289 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

The  Irish  of  the  west  have  curious  habits  and  customs 
which  seem  to  link  them  with  their  forgotten  eastern 
ancestral  race.  The  women  will  draw  their  garments  over 
their  heads  at  the  approach  of  a  stranger,  so  closely  that 
you  may  not  get  even  a  glimpse  of  their  faces.  Their 
husband  is  still  "  the  master "  to  them,  and  they  walk  two 
steps  behind  him  when  they  go  abroad.  But  it  is  the  old 
Catholic  spirit  that  leads  them  to  expect  the  greeting 
"  God  save  all  here ! "  when  you  enter  their  cottage,  and 
"  God  bless  the  work  ! "  when  you  pass  them  in  the  field. 
We  hurry  away,  much  against  our  will,  from  these  attrac- 
tive scenes  because  of  the  breaking  out  of  the  railway 
strike.  The  newspapers  are  all  very  alarming,  and  we  are 
threatened  with  being  flung  for  an  indefinite  period  upon  the 
hospitality  of  our  most  hospitable  friends.  We  do  not 
fear  for  a  minute  that  that  would  fail  us,  but  we  are  due  in 
England  at  appointed  dates,  and  so  we  bustle  off,  "  against 
the  heart "  as  the  French  say. 

But  when  you  make  acquaintance  with  a  strike  from  an 
Irish  point  of  view,  it  seems  one  huge  joke.  Never  did  we 
make  a  journey  to  the  sound  of  so  much  laughter  as  that 
day.  Every  station  was  crowded  with  soldiers,  and  all  the 
inhabitants  mustered  on  the  platforms  to  exchange  sallies 
with  them.  An  eager,  curious,  good-humoured  gathering 
greets  and  speeds  the  train  which  is  supposed  to  be  kept 
running  at  imminent  risk  of  riot  and  peril. 
A  very  splendid  looking  police-inspector  came  into  our 
carriage  and  had  an  animated  conversation  on  the  prospects 
with  an  elderly  gentleman  whom  he  addressed  as  "  Judge/7 
Both  seemed  inspired  with  glee. 

When  we  arrived  in  Dublin  there  was  indeed  a  slight  draw- 
290 


AN  IRISH  STRIKE 

back  in  finding  no  porters  available  for  our  many  boxes. 
But  the  stalwart  man  of  the  party  made  "  no  bones/'  as 
they  would  say,  about  shouldering  them  himself,  and  this 
was  accomplished  amid  the  unstinted  enthusiasm  of  the 
"jarvies."  He  was  aided  <save  the  mark)  by  the  only 
faithful  porter,  as  old  as  Pantaloon,  who  quivered  and 
quavered  behind  him.  A  further  occasion  for  cheers. 
"  Ah,  will  ye  look  at  the  gintleman !  To  think  of  the  likes 
of  him  now,  being  put  to  carry  the  thrunks!  Isn't  it 
ashamed  of  themselves  they  ought  to  be!  Well  done, 
Larry,  it  is  a  grand  old  boy  ye  are !  Let  me  get  a  hould 
of  the  box,  yer  honour.  Oh,  begorra,  isn't  it  the  stringth 
of  ten  ye  do  be  having.  .  .  ." 

"  And  how  do  ye  like  Dublin  now,  Mr.  Smith  ? "  we  heard  a 
pretty  Irish  girl  saying  to  a  stalwart  young  British  soldier 
on  the  platform. 

He  was  grinning  down  at  her  in  stolid  admiration.    She 
herself  had  dove-like  eyes  and  a  dove-like  cooing  voice. 
We  think  he  liked  Dublin  very  much  indeed. 
It  was  the  laughing  face  behind  the  mask  of  tragedy. 


291 


XL 

ONCE  more  has  the  Equinox  come  and 
dropped  into  the  past.  Autumn— the  Fall, 
as  our  older  and  more 
poetic  term  had  it  to 
balance  the  image  of 
Spring,  and  as  America 
still  prefers  to  call  it- 
is  about  us. 
We  disagree  radically 
with  Chateaubriand's 
estimate  of  the  "  russet 
and  silver  days/' 
"A  moral  character" 
<thus  does  the  Father 
ofRomantisme  meditate, 
in  his  usual  melancholy 
mood,  upon  the  season  of  shorten- 
ing days  and  long-drawing  nights) 
"  is  attached  to  autumnal  scenes.  .  .  The  leaves  falling 
like  our  years,  the  flowers  withdrawing  like  our  hours, 
the  colours  of  the  clouds  fading  like  our  illusions,  the 
light  waning  like  our  intelligence,  the  sun  growing  colder 
like  our  affections,  the  rivers  becoming  frozen  like  our 
lives— everything  about  Autumn  bears  secret  relations  to 
our  destinies.  .  ." 

Yes,  we  disagree  with  every  one  of  these  similes.  Rather 
should  Autumn  be  considered  as  the  happy  season  of  the 
task  accomplished.  The  wine  is  pressed  and  stored,  the 
fruit  is  garnered.  ...  In  the  garden  it  is  the  time  of  eager 
292 


WINTER 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  LEAF 

preparation  against  new  delights,  another  year  /  of  solicitude 
for  the  treasures  of  beauty  which  are  to  brighten  another 
Spring,  another  Summer.  The  seed  of  the  dying  Annuals 
has  been  saved/  the  more  tender  of  the  Perennials  are 
timely  withdrawn  into  shelter,  while  the  hardier  are  cosily 
tucked  in  their  own  bed  for  the  coming  long  winter  sleep. 
It  is  the  time  of  the  tidying  down  and  of  the  confident 
"good  night— till  next  year! " 

"Colder,  like  our  affections/7  indeed!  What  will  not 
love  of  rhetoric  perpetrate  ?— and  Christmastide  drawing 
on  apace ! 


The  Master  of  the  House  has  an  old-fashioned  weakness 
-—what  may  be  called  a  "Dickensy"  weakness— for  things 
Christmassy.  And  his  family  have  all  childlike  tastes  and 
are  quite  ready  to  minister  to  his  picturesque  fancy. 
We  have  a  Christmas  tree— a  Spruce  sapling,  selected 
yearly  for  sacrifice  in  the  territory  called  the  Wilderness. 
It  must  be  said  that  the  wide  library,  with  the  capacious 
hearth  and  the  beamed  ceiling,  lends  a  suitable  scenery  to 
this  homelike  <but,  we  fear,  obsolescent)  entertainment. 
The  tree  is  lit  up  on  the  first  night  for  ourselves/  on  the 
second  for  the  household  /  and  a  third  time  for  the  children. 
For  the  true  pleasures  of  Yule  would  be  incomplete  with- 
out a  "  foregathering-and-rejoicing- together "  <as  only  a 
tough  German  compound  word  could  express  it>  of  all 
grades  of  age  and  station.  The  children,  in  this  case,  are 
those  of  the  Catechism  class  and  of  our  employes— which 
pompous  term  must  be  understood  to  refer  to  the  gardener, 
the  chauffeur,  the  undergardener,  and  the  "occasional 

293 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

help/'      This  last  has   five  of  them—so  it  mounts   up 
satisfactorily. 


The  beloved  "  furry  ones  "  are  not  forgotten.  Loki,  who 
is  always  in  a  state  of  violent  excitement  on  Christmas 
Tree  nights,  has  a  toy  animal  to  make  acquaintance  with, 
tease,  and  finally  worry.  Some  one  <it  must  have  been 
Juvenal)  suggested  tying  up  nice  clean  bones  in  red  ribbons  / 
but  out  of  regard  for  Grand- 
ma's carpet,  the  succulent 
thought  has  never  been  "  ma- 
terialized/' 

The  Master  of  the  House,  and 
Juvenal,  are  also  full  of  solid- 
dute  for  the  feathery  things  in 
Winter.  The  bird-baths  are 
carefully  thawed— it  seems,  by 
the  way,  to  be  in  the  coldest 
days  of  the  year  that  they  ap- 
pear to  prefer  to  bathe  /  sand 
baths  are  generally  found  suffi- 
cient in  the  Summer,  one 
wonders  why.  In  cold  weather 
generally,  cocoanuts  filled  with 
fat  are  disposed  in  various 
parts  of  the  garden,  around 
which  tits  and  finches  of  every 
shade  dispute  noisily  all  day. 
But  on  Christmas  day  the  terraces,  the  balus- 
trades and  steps  round  the  house  are  further 
294 


THINGS  CHRISTMASSY 

disfigured  with  such  an  abundance  of  crumbs  and  other 
tempting  morsels,  that,  even  with  the  help  of  all  the  black, 
birds  from  neighbouring  copses,  they  cannot  come  even 
with  the  whole  of  the  feast. 


We  give  each  other  enchanting  presents.  The  lovely 
little  carved-wood  Joan  of  Arc,  on  a  bracket  in  Grandpa's 
library/  the  Madonna  of  Cluny  " prayer-stick "  in  one 
corner  of  the  chimney-piece  /  the  Medici  copy  of  Filippino 
Lippi's  wonderful  angel  in  the  National  Gallery,  in  the 
grey  and  yellow  bedroom/  the  cut-glass  goblets  painted 
with  purple  plums  and  red  cherries  and  blue  grapes  in  the 
drawing-room—all  these  were  this  year's  Christmas  gifts, 
cunningly  chosen,  we  think,  and  a  constant  delight  to 
our  eyes. 


Loki's  Grandma,  after  the  fashion  of  a  lady  in  a  recent 
celebrated  lawsuit,  likes  to  choose  her  own  presents.  But 
she  is  not  so  indelicate  as  to  demand  money  and  buy  it 
herself—No,  she  drops  an  absent  hint,  as  Christmastide 
draws  near.  If  this  is  not  satisfactory,  she  abandons 
diplomacy  for  an  engaging  frankness.  .  .  .  But  she  is  always 
overwhelmed  with  surprise  and  delight  when  "the  very 
thing  she  wanted7'  duly  appears  about  the  Tree.  The 
Master  of  the  Villino,  on  his  side,  has  had  all  the  pleasure 
of  purchasing/  and,  being  of  a  guileless  nature,  is  often 
quite  persuaded  that  the  choice  was  his  own. 
In  fact  we  all  become  like  children  again  at  Christmas  /  and 
this,  after  all,  cannot  be  displeasing  to  the  Christ  Child.  It 

295 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

is  a  time  of  hectic  preparation  /  of  pleasurable  brain-racking 
over  the  suitability  of  gifts  /  of  endless  tying  up  of  parcels 
for  foreign  and  home  dispatch.  We  decorate  the  Villino 
with  round  compact  Holly-wreaths,  which  Adam  makes 
with  rare  raste  and  adroitness.  Never  was  such  a  year  as 
the  last  for  Hollies  /  and  some  of  the  trees  were  still  scarlet 
with  them  in  the  late  Spring. 

As  for  Juvenal,  he  shows  a  recrudescence  of  genius  in  the 
devising  of  table  decoration  with  unthought-of  evergreens  / 
with  rich-toned  leaves  in  the  sear  and  the  brown  and 
purpling  hues  of  Winter,  brightened  with  an  astonishing 
variety  of  haws,  hips,  and  berries. 

In  the  little  Chapel  a  crib  is  built  up  in  a  stone  manger 
brought  from  Rome.  Therein  lies  the  Italian  Bambino, 
purchased  two  generations  ago  by  a  dear  one  who  has 
now  gone  from  us.  It  is  the  quaintest  little  wax  figure 
imaginable,  with  its  painted  red  curls  and  one  wax  foot 
uplifted  in  the  act  of  kicking.— The  story  goes  that  the 
original  much  venerated  image  in  a  certain  Roman  church, 
the  object  of  yearly  pilgrimages,  was  purloined,  or  for 
some  reason  moved  to  another  Church,  to  the  woe  and 
indignation  of  the  faithful  of  the  district.  But  on  the  first 
Christmas  night  after  this  translation,  a  loud  knocking  was 
heard  at  the  door  of  the  original  Church,  and  the  small 
figure  was  discovered,  kicking  with  all  its  might  for  re- 
admittance.  Captured  and  carried  in  with  devotion  and 
joy,  it  was  re-established  with  much  pomp  in  its  old 
quarters,  but  ever  after  remained  with  a  little  kicking  leg  in 
the  air! 

Our  Crib,  surrounded  with  Roman  Hyacinths  and  White 
Narcissus  and  Primulas,  is  fragrant  and  poetic  /  but  we  do 
296 


HUES  OF  WINTER 

not  attempt  to  show  anything  more  than  the  one  image. 
Want  of  space  prevents  it.  Our  ambition,  however,  finds 
larger  scope  in  the  village  Chapel.  There  Juvenal  has  built 
a  very  noble  stable,  thatched  with  heather/  and  all  the 
figures  of  those  first  scenes  of  the  Greatest  Story  in  the 
World  will  take  their  place  this  year. 
Last  year  the  tragedy  happened  that  the  St.  Joseph  and 
Our  Lady/  the  Ox  and  the  Ass  /  the  Kings  and  Shepherds, 
which  had  been  ordered  in  secret  to  surprise  every  one, 
remained  on  the  high  seas  detained  by  December  gales, 
until  too  late.— But  our  coming  Noel  will  be  the  richer  for 
the  enforced  postponement  of  the  Holy  Picture. 

At  the  last  Yuletide  the  Mistress  of  Villino  was  unable, 
after  a  long  year's  illness,  to  join  the  family  party  at 
Midnight  Mass  in  the  village  below  the  hill.  (Midnight 
Mass,  be  it  noted  in  parenthesis,  has  an  extraordinary 
charm  for  the  household  and  indeed  for  the  neighbourhood. 
And,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  it  certainly  is  as  picturesque 
and  touching  a  ceremony  as  ever  men  of  goodwill  are 
happy  to  join  in.  It  seems  to  bring  one  in  direct  touch 
with  the  simplicity  of  the  shepherds  of  those  far-off  hills.) 
But  as  the  excluded  padrona  was  lying  quietly  in  bed 
waiting  for  the  sounds  of  departure,  she  was  touched  and 
charmed  to  hear  the  strains  of  a  carol  rising  softly  from 
the  terrace  beneath  her  windows : 

See  ami d  the  winter's  snou), 
Born  for  us  on  earth  below, 
See,  the  tender  Lamb  appears, 
Promised  from  eternal  years  ! 

297 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

Hail,  thou  everblessed  morn  ! 
Hail,  Redemptions  happy  dawn  ! 
Sing,  through  all  Jerusalem, 
Christ  is  born  in  Bethlehem  I 

Lo,  within  a  manger  lies 
He  Who  built  the  starry  skies  ; 
He,  Who  throned  in  heights  sublime 
Sits  amid  the  Cherubim  ! 

All  the  household  had  gathered  there  to  give  her  this 
pleasure  and  make  her  feel  that  she  was  not  altogether  shut 
out  from  the  Christmas  privileges!  Wrapped  in  their 
thick  cloaks,  with  Juvenal  swinging  a  lantern,  they  stood 
in  a  long  row  and  chanted  to  her.  It  was  one  of  those 
small  sweetnesses  in  life  that  leave  a  lasting  memory. 

There  is  a  picture  in  a  garden  paper  of  Japanese  single 
Asters  growing  wild  in  grass :  the  seeds  had  been  mixed 
by  mistake,  but  the  result,  according  to  the  illustration, 
was  singularly  attractive.  When  we  saw  it  we  said  that 
the  experiment  should  be  made  at  Villino  Loki  l^Many 
indeed  are  the  experiments,  many  the  improvements  to  be 
made  within  our  small  acres. 

But  what  a  difference  lies  between  conception  and  execution. 
Of  late  <for  an  instance)  we  had  revolved  round  the  agree- 
able thought  of  a  Pool  and  a  wet  place  generally,  for  Iris 
Kaempheri,  Spiraea  and  other  moisture-loving  darlings.  We 
had  indeed  intended  something  altogether  choice  in  the 
shape  of  a  large  sunken  basin  with  a  piping  faun  on  the 
edge  of  it.  Oh,  something  quite  delightful.  .  .  But  an  incon- 
298 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  YEAR 

venient  attack  of  "  conscience  "—in  other  words  the  heavy 
memory  of  garden  bills,  already  incurred  over  the  Autumn 
lists,  rose  up  and  barred  the  way.  We  felt  something  like 
Scrooge  when  the  ghost  with  the  bony  finger  <horrible  vision 
of  our  youth)  pointed  to  the  tomb.  Only,  on  our  tablet 
what  was  written  was  the  ghastly  total  of  our  bulbous 
liabilities !  Like  Scrooge,  we  covered  our  faces  with  our  hands. 
No  wonder  the  faun  took  fright  and  leaped  into  next  year. 

Well,  now,  another  year  has  come/  and  it  is  passing, 
taking  us  upon  yet  another  round  of  garden  pleasures,  of 
old  hopes  and  ambitions  renewed— with  many  new  delights 
and  new  disappointments,  as  of  old/  with  also  fresh 
openings  on  the  bright  hori- 
zon. New  interests  too.  Of 
these,  some  of  the  smaller 
are  not  the  least  engrossing. 
To  Villino  Loki  this  year,  for  ex- 
ample, has  come  a  new  Pekinese.  It  is 
a  Princess,  very  small,  very  sleek  /  chest- 
nut-hued,  with  a  face  like  a  pansy.  She 
has  got  a  little  jutting  under-jaw,  an  extremely  flat  nose  / 
and,  in  moments  of  excitement,  her  eyes  display  an  amazing 
amount  of  white  rim.  But  they  are  becoming  very  beautiful 
eyes  for  all  that.  They  were  the  brightest  of  "  boot- 
buttons  "  when  she  came  first. 

Loki  was,  naturally,  very  angry.  He  did  his  best  to  kill 
her  /  which  was  ungrateful,  as  she  was  really  procured,  at 
great  cost  and  difficulty,  to  be  his  Imperial  Bride !  She,  on 
her  side,  liked  him  awfully,  and  told  him  so.  On  her  first 
motor  drive  down  here  from  London,  as  she  waggled  and 

299 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

smirked' at  him  from  an  opposite  lap,  he  sat  on  his  Ma-Ma's 
knee  and  pulled  a  series  of  grimaces  in  return,  the  like  of 
which  you  can  only  find  painted  on  Chinese  screens  or  cast 
in  Chinese  bronze. 

The  ways  of  the  new  Peky  are  an  endless  source  of  amuse- 
ment and  joy.  We  tried  to  call  her  Mimosa  /  but,  as  usual 
with  the  youngest  of  the  family,  she  remains  "  Baby/7 
She  has  a  coat  the  colour  of  a  ripe  chestnut,  which  will,  we 
think,  almost  rival  Loki's  in  luxuriance.  Her  eyes  have 
the  same  proportion  to  her  face  as  those  of  a  Dicky  Doyle 
fairy.  She  has  the  oddest  tastes,  loving  among  many  other 
unexpected  things  the  flavour  of  tobacco.  If  she  can  get 
hold  of  a  pipe  or  a  cigarette  she  will  sit  and  suck  it,  sniffing 
with  enchantment,  till  one  would  swear  she  was  smoking. 
All  the  dogs,  of  course,  have  their  coffee  after  lunch  and 
dinner  in  orthodox  fashion,  so  there  is  nothing  astounding 
in  her  having  taken  to  it  with  gusto  from  the  very  first— 
but,  for  her,  the  stronger  the  better ! 
Like  most  Pekies,  she  begs  and  "  prays "  without  ever 
having  had  to  be  taught  the  art.  She  has  furthermore  a 
talent  quite  her  own— that  of  elaborately  waltzing  in  front 
of  you  when  she  wants  anything  very  particularly. 
One  of  the  dearest  peculiarities  of  the  breed  is,  as  we  have 
said,  the  rapture  of  their  welcome  on  the  return  of  any 
member  of  the  family.  The  Master  of  the  House  is  sensi- 
tive to  this  attention,  and  is  quite  hurt  if  he  misses  Loki's 
clamorous  greeting.  The  other  day  "the  Baby"  was  sent 
into  the  Hall  to  meet  him  on  his  home-coming.  No  sooner 
did  he  appear  than  she  solemnly  began  her  dance  and  pre- 
ceded him  as  he  advanced,  conscientiously  executing  her 
finest  pas  de  fascination.  This  consists  of  leaping  into  the 
300 


THE  NEW  PEKy 

air,  turning  round  upon  herself,  and  coming  down  on  to  her 
front  paws.  Little  Eastern  as  she  is,  she  knew  no  better 
way  of  expressing  her  feelings  towards  "  the  Master/' 
From  what  far  ancestress,  bred  in  the  secret  sinister 
splendours  of  a  Manchu  Palace,  did  she  inherit  this 
accomplishment  ? 


301 


XLI 

IT  is  the  dream  of  the  owners  of  Villino  Loki  to  build  on 
another  wing  /  but,  so  far,  funds  do  not  run  to  this.  The 
Villino  is  sadly  short  of  guest  chambers  /  that  is  because 
one  room  has  been  for  ever  allotted  to  the  little  Oratory. 
This  little  Chapel  is  a  haven  of  peace.  One's  thoughts 
turn  to  it  when  one  has  the  misfortune  to  be  away  from 
home.  Over  the  altar  there  hangs  a  large,  wonderfully 
beautiful  crucifix.  The  figure,  white  majolica,  was  bought 
in  a  villainous  den  of  a  curiosity  shop  on  the  Tiber.  We 
remember  how  it  shone  out  of  the  darkness  at  us,  and  we 
felt  it  had  to  be  ours !  It  is  now  affixed  to  a  large  gilt 
carved  wood  cross  made  for  us  by  the  doratore  in  Piazza 
Nicosia.  -  •  .  Excellent  ruffian !  The  cross  has  one  arm 
much  longer  than  the  other,  though  no  one  would  know  it 
who  did  not  measure  /  and  it  has  the  inimitable  stamp  of 
the  artistic  hand  bound  by  no  slavish  measure  or  hideous 
time-saving  mechanism. 

The  Chapel  is  chiefly  white  and  gold.  Two  large  Donatello 
angels,  warm  ivory-coloured,  from  the  Manifattura  di  Signa, 
carry  the  red  Sanctuary  lamps.  One  is  certainly  the  real 
Donatello— the  other,  we  fear,  a  poor  foundling.  But  they 
both  look  very  well. 

There  is  a  great  window  over  the  moor. 
The  few  small  statues  are,  we  think,  attractive/  chiefly 
decorated  with  bronzy  golds  and  deep  colours.  There  is 
St.  Louis,  King  of  France,  specially  carved  by  a  Bavarian 
artist,-  a  slender  noble  figure  with  a  face  of  grave  asceticism, 
holding  up  the  Crown  of  Thorns.  And  there  is  a  sternly 
warlike  St.  Michael,  all  golden,  resting  on  his  sword.  And 
302 


OUR  SENTIMENTAL  GARDEN 

a  St.  Anthony  <a  real  discovery  this)  lifting  a  pale  counten- 
ance that  seems  on  fire  with  ardour  towards  the  Divine 
Infant  who  stands  on  his  book— St.  Anthony  is  "  in  glory  "/ 
his  habit  golden  over  the  brown.  St.  George,  a  fine  splash 
of  colour,  charges  the  dragon  over  the  fireplace.  It  is  a 
most  satisfying  dragon  with  red  jaws  open  and  a  green 
claw  tearing  at  the  lance  that  has  conquered  him.  St. 
George's  iron-grey  horse,  with  flowing  crimson  trappings, 
starts  aside  and  rolls  a  distraught  eye— as  well  he  might.  It 
is  all  in  plaster  and  in  rather  deep  relief.  Two  tall  golden 
wood-carved  Roman  church  candlesticks  flank  it  on  either 
side,  fitted  with  electric  light. 

We  have  placed  square  Compton  pots  with  Italian  wreaths, 
filled  with  palms  and  flowering  plants,  one  on  each  side  of 
the  altar  step. 

At  night,  when  there  is  no  light  in  the  Oratory,  except 
that  of  the  Sanctuary  lamps,  the  shadows  of  the  palms 
look  like  angels'  wings,  crossing  and  re-crossing.  .  .  . 


But,  just  as  to  a  Garden  there  is  no  end—no  end  to  its 
wants  or  to  our  desires  for  it/  to  its  phases,  its  trans- 
mutation surprises  /  to  our  joys  and  disappointments  in  it 
—so  there  is  no  end  to  a  Garden  and  Country  House 
gossip.  We  might  go  on  for  ever— like  Tennyson's  Brook ! 
And  meanwhile  the  year  is  passing  on,  in  its  stately 
pomp. 

Full  Summer  is  once  more  upon  the  Garden.  The  Del- 
phiniums are  rampant.  We  are  in  the  centre  of  a  heat 
wave,  and  our  dry  hill-side  pants  in  the  sun.  At  the  fall 
of  eve  our  souls  rejoice  in  the  sound  of  the  refreshing 
304 


SUMMER  ONCE  MORE  .  .  .  AND  AFTER 

showers  when  the  watering  begins  /  for  one  thirsts  sym- 
pathetically with  the  cherished  borders.  .  .  . 
The  moor  is  deepening  to  purple.  The  trees  wear  the 
deep  green  that  precedes  the  turn.  Life  is  rushing  by  with 
us  so  quickly  that  it  seems  but  the  "  blink  of  an  eye/'  as 
the  Germans  say,  since  we  were  peering  for  the  first  bulb 
shoot.  ...  In  a  little  while  the  Ramblers  and  Wichurianas 
will  be  one  blaze  of  glory  /  and  in  a  little  while  again  the 
Autumn  winds  will  be  shouting  up  the  valley  and  the 
Bracken  turning  gold  over  the  rolling  hills  /  and  again  in  a 
little  while  again  it  will  be  the  Winter  and  the  snow  and 
we  shall  be  watching  for  the  Spring. 
And  it  will  be  all  even  as  before  and  yet  all  quite  different. 
And  so  year  by  year.  .  .  .  And  one  day  our  garden  will 
bloom  for  other  eyes  than  ours. 

Nunc  tibi—mox  aliis,  the  Book-Lover's  motto  has  it.     How 
true  also  of  the  beloved  Garden !  .  .  .  Another  "  eye-blink." 


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